Sparrow's Valley

By William Moore

            There are moments that occur in everyone’s life that haunt them...creating an inner beast that lay suppressed deep within them till their dying day. An evil presence designated to stalk our every living breath. In Sparrow’s Valley, nothing is as it seems. Unseen forces have bought the souls of powerful leaders to play a twisted game with seven unexpecting lives who are separated only by distance. But between the distance of what they call home and Sparrow’s Valley is a demonic sociopath lurking with other plans for them making a seemingly tranquil trip away from reality into a survival by any means necessary.

            Lance Faulkner, a recluse with his almighty hand over the town of Sparrow’s Valley, has made a deal to regain what he most loves out of life by playing puppet master. Luring these seven individuals to his lovely abode and persuade them to kill themselves or each other using the traumatic experiences that have created them as his only weapon. But what happens when you are living your own nightmare and no one around you sees what you see or knows what you know? Do you turn on those newly acquired friends...or yourself? Or do you stand alone and face the inner demons that wish to destroy you? In a place where seeming coincidence becomes circumstance the seven shall soon see, that their nightmarish past has begun to take form in a hellish place on earth called Sparrow’s Valley.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 29, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467096393

William Moore

William Moore, celebrated poet, 5-star rated author of Sparrow’s Valley and the Twisted Fairy Tells series (www.twistedfairytells.com), has spent the last two decades as one of New York’s top software and writing consultants – a master of words. Moore created two nonprofit organizations focused on the arts both in-school and after school, in New York. He was born and raised in New Orleans. Growing up in a single-family household, Moore spent most of his youth sharpening his mind through writing and mastering his body through martial arts and competitive sports. William spends his free time developing the future of mobile and the web, through his company Mojavie (www.mojavie.com).

Book preview

Sparrow’s Valley

William Moore

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403 www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

500 Avebury Boulevard

Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2006 William Moore. 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.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/21/2006

ISBN: 978-1-4259-1934-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-9639-3 (ebk)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Scriptures Of A Mad Man

Chapter One

About the Author

Prologue

1

Faulkner was a disciple of a depraved religion, whom meditated daily in hopes of one day proving himself worthy to his master. His place of worship located on the second floor of his illustrious home was an impious synagogue for occultic practices. With one press of a remote device that was kept safely in his back pocket, the bookcase located to the right of the fireplace in his study room raised, lifting back onto a hidden track sliding flushed against the wall revealing a finely polished oak wooden door at the end of a long narrow hallway. He looked down the hallway across the black and white marble tiled floor admiring the décor lacing the walls and the ceiling. Every several feet were replica pieces of well-renown artwork, from the Mona Lisa to the Last Supper. A laser scan device built into the wall on his left when activated after verifying his hand prints triggered the bookcase to shift back to its original location. Lance placed his hand over the square box as the green scanned over his hand to authenticate his unique prints.

"Welcome, Lance."

The technological advancements in fingerprint recognition and voice notification were only a couple of his many unnecessary toys. No one could ever have known of his lair without his knowledge, but there were no lengths to which he went to continually amaze himself from day to day. As the wall closed shut behind him, the chandeliers above head were automatically activated. Lance gazed into the translucent bulbs inside the wavy glass flames atop the chandelier surrounding its platinum frame illuminating the hallway. The lights reflected off two full-length mirrors stationed within the boundaries of the doors located at each end of the hallway so that he could admire himself from each direction. Lance cherished his body. Its language. The way it spoke to him, subliminally implanting messages of peace and serenity in his subconscious mind. The mirrors were his way of looking into his own soul before and after performing his nightly rituals. Rejuvenating his being, becoming more in tune with his evil counterparts of the world beyond. As he slowly approached the entrance to his lair at the end of the hallway, he noted his posture and the usual blank expression plastered across his face. Ever since he had found his calling in life, he had not aged even a single year. Each time he entered his lair, he left with a renewed vigor in his step. His reflection displayed a heavyset man, yet toned. Lance ran his hands along his hips content with his figure. After years of late night binges, he felt lucky to have never developed much of a beer belly lackadaisically trying to keep it under control through infrequent workouts. His only sign of aging was a slight bald spot in the back of his head that he refused to accept taking only a frontal view in the mirror. His jet-black hair had begun to bald prior to finding the dark arts. He had finally concluded that he had defied the odds that his condition would worsen over the years. While others only had a few options, hair transplants, prescription medications, hair sprays, and toupees, he had seemingly cryogenically frozen in time.

Either way, he saw any other alternative as further signs to onlookers of a man in denial not wanting to accept his old age as a battle scar in the war of life. Most people did not even take notice of his balding because his sophisticated demeanor usually drew their attention away from it. The only feature highlighting any sense of youthfulness left in him was his puffy cheeks and the occasional bubbly side to his personality that shone through ever so rarely. But he took this part of his life seriously. Lance turned to take one last glance at his hazel eyes in the mirror before reaching out, turning the knob as the door painstakingly creaked open revealing his place of worship.

At the center of his lair was a pentagram engraved into the gravel-laden floor. Three interlocking circles resembling the Olympics’ emblem were painted in chicken’s blood directly before the pentagram. Lance took pride in his knowledge of the arts designing the room in such a way that it was covered in uncommon forms of demonic symbols. A multitude of black candles were located uniformly around the pentagram. The fumes from the melted wax mixed with the scent of previous sacrifices filled the room. Along the back wall, which faced the entrance hung a circular carpet embroidered with a swastika; a symbol that he knew existed long before Nazi communism, the true meaning that lay beyond the man who made it an infamous symbol of past Germany. Lance knew it as a pagan symbol for the four winds and the four elements, which have been worshiped for century upon century. A primitive satanic altar stood next to the pentagram in the floor, obviously for sacrificial purposes whenever Lance performed his Black Mass. On the altar lay a dagger with a six inch curved serrated blade. On the four corners of the rectangular altar were four prominent symbols of his beliefs, the shankabra, Black mass indicator, a depiction of the dagger that rested on the altar, and an ankh. Through the drawn curtains of the spider web designed, stained glass window located in the far left corner crept in rays of moonlight highlighting the altar.

As he made his way towards the center of his chamber of deification closing the door behind him, a much stronger demonic presence than he was accustomed too crept its way in, enhancing the room’s eerie aura. Lance knew someone or something was there with him, but who?

He knelt at the focus of the pentagram taking hold of his medallion, the cross of Nero, whom was responsible for the death of many innocent victims in his day. The emblem that has come to symbolize peace to the world. Everything that Lance lived for, thrived on, took pride in had some sort of meaning, depth beyond natural comprehension. All things had a prophetic meaning.

Life or death.

Animate or inanimate.

All things had a purpose. They spoke to him in his heart, to his inner being and this presence was in no way straying away from this belief.

As he knelt at the focus, he called out to the presence.

Who are you and why are you here? Lance uttered in a humble voice fearful of being paraded by a band of the unknown.

Suddenly the candles dimmed into nothingness. A thin string of smoke hovered overhead staining the ceiling leaving him only the light passing through the window from the celestial bodies. The darkness was immediately followed by a heaviness, which overwhelmed Lance leaving him short of breath. Lance placed his hand around his neck in a futile attempt to find what mysterious entity was hindering his involuntary breathing. His eyes slowly pulled back, rolling back into their sockets but he could still see but in another sense. Imageries passed across his line of vision even though not through his eyes. A sixth sense overtook his sight. His retinas were completely hidden behind his zombie state. Lance slowly raised his head realizing he was consciously in a hypnotic trance that had been induced by the presence. With a devilish grin, I know who you are, but why are you here?

Do you really? the voice declared with a knowing mischief.

You are the one who has lead many to destroy seemingly entire generations, the one who persuades many to defy all that is righteous, you are the Evil One. But why have you chosen to speak to such a lowly minion as myself.

You have followed me loyally, unknowingly obeying everything that I fed to your spirit and thus coming to fruition to your flesh. You have practiced Satanism and nearly all forms of idolatry. Everything you have done throughout your life has proven you as a faithful cohort in my army against good. I come to you to offer you everything that you have requested of me but for the ultimate price. Take my hand and come with me to the safe haven for my people.

As the demon professed his proposition, a flame emerged slowly materializing into a strong but cryptic and bony hand, which emitted its own cryptic light. Beginning at the tip of its long defined fingernails, the flame traversed up from its fingers to its palm, which was faced up reaching out for Lance’s submission. It curled its index finger signifying him to approach to travel back with him to the deep chasms of hell.

Wha…What the fuck? Lance screamed with an uncanny fear.

Lance snapped back into reality as his eyes jolted back, his pupils widening in disbelief at the seeming eminent danger. The abnormally large hand was gradually making its way towards him. In an instinctive reflex, Lance turned, lunging back towards the door tripping over the candles around the pentagram, wounding his forearm against the doorframe’s splintered edges. Lance stumbled back, ricocheting off the door as he fell onto his buttocks. Desperately, he pushed his dead body weight up from the floor, stretching out in full spread reaching for the doorknob. Ignorant of the abrasion sustained to his forearm, Lance did not realize his futile attempts to turn the knob. A streak of blood from the wound ran down his arm into the palm of his hand sliding over the knob making a firm grip an impossibility. In a fit of panic, he lowered his shoulder rhythmically ramming his body into the door hoping to break it off the hinges. Suddenly, Lance felt the demon’s hand laying firmly across his shoulder. The shock of the abrupt contact ran through his body shutting down all nerve functions paralyzing his legs.

He could not move, standing tall and motionless.

What’s wrong? Lance Faulkner… afraid? Why? This is what you’ve always asked for and now it can be yours. The man who has brought Sparrow’s Valley to its knees is now paralyzed with fear after seeing a fragment of the one who has given him everything he has. Come with me so that I can show you all that you have dreamt about and wished for.

Nervously, Lance turned his body to see a suave, well-built mature man fashioned in the latest black Armani double-breasted business suit. Everything about him was dark and mysterious. He stood outlined in the moonlight hiding any intricate details in his face. Lance could make out that his eyes were concealed behind a pair of black metal-framed glasses. The small tinted lenses accentuated his enigmatic persona. His physical features chiseled in stone by the legends of the Renaissance period. His chest and arm muscularity were clearly visible through indentations in his suit. Equipped with very large hands but not the hands that levitated before him moments prior. Leaner and more human like. He towered nearly twice Lance’s size. To add to his eccentricity, a dark shadowy fire engulfed him exemplifying his power adding to the illusion to incorporate a subconscious fear along with his presence.

He was without blemish, without flaw. The demon seemed cryptically perfect in every way. Ironic to his dramatic entrance, his actions and words were opposite to what Lance had previously believed, almost calm and suave, yet powerful. This image alleviated his fear immediately replaced by vast levels of joy. Lance now willingly extended his hand to this business-like figure. As Lance took hold of the demon’s hand, a veil of darkness enveloped him transporting him to another realm.

Where are you taking me? Lance said in anticipation.

To make a deal. But first let’s talk on more intimate terms. Call me Siphon

Lance squinted his eyes trying to make out what he was saying to realize that his mouth was not moving. He was speaking to his soul, not to his flesh. Lance was truly amazed. Siphon watched him as Lance stood in awe at how he was communicating with him reassuring Lance that there was nothing to fear but fear itself, which Siphon was the essence of.

After finally reaching the unholy destination, Lance had a gut feeling that he had somehow been here before.

Déjà vu.

They were seated in two black office chairs. The back support could be repositioned up and down, forward and backward but had already been placed in an ideal position for both of them. Between them was a long wooden-framed dinner table engraved with two panthers facing each other glaring into each other’s eyes preparing for battle. The four support legs were slightly curved inward. They sat at opposite ends directly facing each other. In front of Siphon laying atop the desk was a small stack of papers

A contract.

What are those? Lance inquired pointing at them to clarify what he was speaking of.

We’ll get to that. No need to rush into things.

Siphon rested his left hand over his right tapping the table with his right fingers in a wave pattern going from his pinky to index finger. He suddenly stopped, placing his left hand on the contract.

Lance broke focus from Siphon lifting his head looking around at his new surrounding.

It was deserted.

The landscape had no life from one region to the next.

Not much to look at, is it?

Lance gave Siphon a double take, glancing back and forth between him and the world around him, which was much more of an answer than words could have explained. Siphon raised the hand that lay on the stack of papers, snapping his fingers.

The ground around the table as far as they could see began heating up.

Melting. Burning fiery red.

Bubbling up forming non-uniform indentations in the ground, slowly taking a mind of its own. From the legs of the table, it spread smoothing out across the asphalt and gravel forming a cylindrical base. Around the outer perimeter, the enflamed earth erupted several feet into the air, cooling into a gray concrete block. It continued to spread back, erupting every four or five feet as it leveled up and outwards for several hundred feet.

Lance gawked in amazement as it began to finally become clear. They were seated on the ground floor of an arena. After the immediate infrastructure had taken form, the building continued to add in the little intricate details. Lance turned from side to side as each level was being filled with thousands of seats. At the top of the first level, a safety railing elevated around the entire edge. A hundred foot square area in the top ten levels directly facing Lance extended outward over the seats. The face of the wall cleared, hollowing out exposing a glass wall leading to an empty room. Inside the room was a table matching the one on the ground floor. A man was seated on the opposite end facing them. The man inside the room raised his right hand activating the lights in the room. Picture frames hung from the walls but were too far away for Lance to make out.

Who’s that?

Siphon turned, looking up into the executive VIP box.

Oh him. That’s the boss.

Your boss?

You didn’t think that this was all my idea, do you? You’re funny. I like you.

As the lava engrossed building cooled forming the rest of the arena, it released toxic fumes into the air. The wretched stench of sulfur burned his nose hairs. But the sight of this malevolent place brought tears to his eyes, not tears of despair, but tears of joy. It was a place of perish, of pain and suffering. A place that only a person of his caliber would understand or find meaning in its artistic outlay looking far into the distance noting that there was no end continuing on and on into eternity never to reach the horizon.

Is there an end to this place?

No. As you travel further, you come to realize that you are walking into oblivion. There is no horizon because this is not a world as you are accustomed. It is straight and eternal. There is always more to this place so that each new day is a day of new experience.

But it can’t be, Lance said in wonderment. I’ve been here before but how.

You have been here before. He brought you here many years ago during your adolescence. He chose you the day you were born to be one of his tools of evil. There was something in your nature that reeked ungodliness. But you wouldn’t remember very much about this place because you were too young. Have you ever wondered about that mark on your shoulder?

Lance raised the sleeve of his robe running his hand over the symbol tattooed into his shoulder.

It was a spur of the moment idea for a tattoo. I never really understood why I had it done. I just went along with it. Later on, I made it a symbol for my future generations. A family crest for my future family. I had it done…I don’t know why. So what is it?

You just said it, your family crest. You’ve had to feel what it was. You even had it placed within your lair. Do you really think that it was a coincidence?

I honestly don’t know why I put it there. What is it?

It’s a fairly unknown version of the triple six. Enough of the history lesson, you’ll learn more later. But for now, I have some important matters to take care of with you. There’s nothing free in this world which you surely understand from personal experience. You have done many things in your day to many people. Cut many throats throughout your life to get where you are today. But for what I am bestowing upon you, you will pay the ultimate price.

Ultimate price? Lance said confused.

Siphon laughed at Lance’s naivety of the situation.

Your soul, Siphon declared as his voice deepened filling the realm echoing off the walls of the arena. As he awaited Lance’s response, a legion of followers walked into the arena through the up ramps filling the seats. He actually knew some of them, but a majority of them were extras to fill the remaining empty space. To his left were those that he had built up an undying hatred for and to his right were those that he admired and respected. Siphon was massaging Lance’s buttons, soothing his pride. Siphon knew the sight of these people would lead him towards taking serious consideration of what he could do for or against these people after accepting the proposition. With centuries of experience under his belt, hell had a way of knowing the does and don’ts of the industry.

Who is that? Lance asked.

Inside the VIP booth standing to both sides of Siphon’s boss were two men standing in front of the glass window. They walked over to the window and waved to him. Even though he could not make out the main demon himself whom was still seated in the chair at the far end, Lance would never forget that walk. The intricate details that separated those two men from every other individual in the known world.

Eric and Frank.

The two men who introduced him to the demonic arts. He was their apprenticed Satanist. He had assumed that they would have gone to a place such as this after they passed on. It was their destiny, speaking about it every chance they had. Saying that one day we would all be here together. One big happy family.

My soul, Lance uttered indiscriminately.

Yes, your soul.

But I have everything I would ever want or need from this world.

"Yes, this world! There is something that you’ve asked for beyond anything you can receive in this world and I know you know what I speak of. Beyond unlimited wealth, power, fame, and respect, there is one thing that you want back. Something you lost many years ago that I have within my power to give you once again. But first, along with your soul, you must prove yourself to me once more. Give me the souls of those that I select and show you in a vision.

But how will I accomplish such a task?

Foolish child, I will give you command over seven of my minions to do my will. They will come forth at your command. But you must also torment them before they die, for when one gives up on life, they naively give in to me. And when one takes their own life, they give me their soul for an eternity of torment unwillingly becoming a part of my realm. But there is one more thing. You cannot harm them yourself, but only push them to take their own life or to take the life of each other.

How will I persuade someone to go to such extremes? I mean to take their own life or the life of another man.

With a mischievous grin, Siphon commenced to tell Lance his plans.

Within the blood lies the essence of life, its origin, and its meaning. But also lays the most suppressed feelings and events in one’s life. One taste of a mortal’s blood now bestows upon you those secrets that can help you complete my wishes.

I hope you know what you’re doing.

Come now. It’s what I do for a living. I’ve been doing this since before you were a seed in your mother’s womb, Siphon grinned sinisterly at Lance’s incognizance, One more thing. To show that you are now part of my army, I bestow upon you a new name, Numen.

Numen, why Numen? Is there some kind of significance behind it?

Numen is another name for my faithful demon followers.

But how am I supposed to lure the people that you select for me?

Let me let you in on a little secret. There is no such thing that you mortals call ‘coincidence.’ Circumstance but not coincidence. All events in one’s life are the product of evil inspiration or divine intervention. You were all given freewill to make your own decisions, but the situations in which you must make these decisions are brought about by me or him.

Him?

The Holy One. He knows everyone’s fate based on their decision to each circumstance. We sort of give the impression that we know their fate by manipulating events to our liking. Now don’t be fooled…My demon’s walk amongst you in wait to follow my every command. So don’t worry your pretty little head about how they’ll get here. Leave that to me and my legion. Just be squared away with what you’re doing once they’re here.

Without any warning, a heavy weariness fell down upon Lance as he slipped into a deeper state of unconsciousness. Lance saw a haze of several individuals in the distance of oblivion. He could not make out their faces, only a general depiction of who they were. He leaned forward; subconsciously placing his hand across his forehead to block the non-existent blinding lights as the figures slowly approached.

I can almost make out their faces but what does this mean? Who are they?

These are the ones that I handpicked for you. You will make their lives a literal hell on earth. They will learn anguish as they have never previously known. I will ensnare them and lead them to your lovely establishment, but you will take control from there. I’m not wiping your ass every time you need me. My job is to get them here. Now once they cross your property line, what you do to them is completely up to you. Make me proud.

At that moment, one of the individuals took precedence over the others but was still not in focus. As the person came into focus, his surrounding scenery faded out as Siphon teleported Numen into a past event.

Who is that? Numen asked exasperated, Why are you showing me this?

Look closer what do you see?

A man and… oh.

Numen was just far enough away that he could not make out the man’s face. Siphon pointed across the parking lot at the opposite side of the street at a vehicle, a Prizm, stationed on the corner. Inside the window was a young man spying on the first man that Siphon had shown him.

Who is that watching him?

Maybe this will help.

Siphon pulled the young man out of the vehicle like an animation program leaving him positioned, hanging in mid-air mutating and evolving the stranger. The young man changed, growing older. Maturing. It was the one from the group that had come forward in the last scene before Siphon transported him into the present movie reel.

It’s him. But I can’t see him clearly. You’ll know him when you see him. Look again.

His name is Colin.

Colin, he said unenthusiastically.

The man made his way into his late brown Pontiac Bonneville. Siphon placed Numen deeper into the scene, sitting him atop the car guiding Numen’s focus towards Colin whom was transported back into his vehicle across the street. The man drove through the facing handicapped parking; the sign dividing the two spots to notify customers of private parking had been knocked over and the owner never bothered replacing it. He turned the wheel and drove through the facing stall avoiding the only other vehicle parked in the neighboring spot, heading towards the middle lane dividing the parking lot of the mall area into two large halves. Numen felt a tap on his shoulder, surely Siphon.

Keep an eye on him, he said redirecting his attention to the Prizm.

The man braked at the exit to the pharmacy’s parking lot waiting for the light to turn green. As he kept an eye on Colin, the vehicle lights turned on, obviously starting his car as he waited for them to pass. He was extremely paranoid of the crazed young teenagers driving around at this time of night looking both ways even after the light had turned green. After a night of slamming down a few six packs of beer and mixed drinks at the neighborhood club, there was no telling who would come roaring down the street prematurely ending the life of some poor unsuspecting soul. He turned left out of the parking lot, swerving at the last moment to avoid a rather large pothole caused from the wear and tear of the street drag racers that streaked down this street night in and night out. Peeling off for hours as they slammed onto the asphalt after going airborne and flying at such excessive speeds had turned small imperfections in the road into stunt ramps. After regaining control of his vehicle, he continued down the street. Numen stretched his neck around leaning over the roof keeping an eye on the Colin as Siphon abruptly transported him back to hell, sitting him at the table.

Wait! What happened? You have to tell me! he asked with a sense of urgency standing to his feet

Do you know who that was?

No, Numen responded, looking at him waiting for an answer but he was not giving any sign that he was in fact giving him one.

Siphon basked in his own mysteriousness in knowing that Numen wanted to know more but was given only a mere morsel of true enlightenment. He extended his hand materializing a diamond encased fountain pen between his fingers.

Sign here, he said marking an ‘x’ next to the dotted line in the bottom left hand corner of the top sheet of the contract. Be sure.

I’m sure but you have to give me answers.

Numen took the pen signing his John Hancock in red blood ink on the dotted line.

Signing his life and soul away.

Are you sure you want to do this? This is your last chance.

Lance paused for a moment before finishing signing his name on the dotted line. The pen crumbled away blowing into the wind, disappearing into nothingness. Nothing had transpired as far as Siphon was concerned. Everything that happened here, stayed here and would never leave here. It was a symbol of the mutual agreement between Numen and hell of the secrecy that they would uphold at all cost to ensure the passing on of its teachings to the next generation and beyond. To all those who made a lifelong commitment to follow it.

I’ll show you more as time goes on. Or maybe you’ll surprise me and discover the truth by your own means, Siphon said giving a sly grin knowing the extent of what Numen was signing away if he could not fulfill his half of the deal.

Well…I see that you are leaving me in suspense so back to the matter at hand. What will I do once they are here?

Once again, that is totally up to you. Do what you must but I want their lives and their souls!

Siphon looked deep into Numen’s soul as he raised his hand expelling a ray of darkness upward piercing through what light there was, making a path through the earth burrowing its way through the burnt soil into the outer world.

You shot a ray of darkness, Numen said more out of curiosity than of fear.

I see you have much to learn about us. We here live and thrive on the shadows of darkness. But we persuade others to follow us by portraying ourselves as angels of light. If we showed ourselves as we truly are, many would stray in fear what they don’t understand. But just as angels emit light, we emit darkness. Darkness, if you did not already know, is basically the absence of light. We are the evil of alter-ego of pure good.

So you are exactly what our enemies aren’t, pure, utter evil.

We can show ourselves in the light, but we must remain secretive so that no one can uncover our plan, corrupting our followers. Always remember, your worst enemy. The ones that you must be the most careful are the ones that were once you. They have an unfair advantage because they know you as well as themselves where as you only know you…

I don’t understand.

Siphon paused for a moment and continued, stating his words slowly and carefully, he continued.

It’s like a child trying to deceive his parents with the same lies that they used. It never works because they did it once before.

What does that have to do with me?

Siphon laughed, filling the air with his powerful voice.

Always thinking of yourself. It’s not always about you. What don’t you understand? I’m letting you in on my little secret why these Christians can’t ever seem to win against us. They’re fighting a pointless battle. Just because we’re evil, people are easily deceived in regards to us disguising ourselves to fade into their inner sanctums.

Siphon shook his head becoming agitated at his level of incompetence. Damn, boy. We were angels. Just because we emit darkness doesn’t mean we cannot portray ourselves as light. Use that to your advantage as you fulfill your part of the agreement. Now go and do my will.

Numen suddenly could not keep his eyes open. His eyelids had become much heavier closing shut as he faded away.

******

2

Numen awoke lying across the pentagram unaware of his surroundings wondering if what had happened was in fact reality or a dream. He took a quick glance around the room observing that the candles had been knocked over. The doorknob was still stained with his blood. He sat up turning towards the window to see what was obstructing the rays of moonlight from entering through the window of his sanctuary. His mouth dropped in awe at the sight of seven sparrows with wings spread grinning at him from the windowsill.

Numen stood to his feet as he walked over to the window and unlocked the lever at the lower side of the windowsill. As he opened the window, the sparrows flew away to avoid being struck by the glass. He followed their escape pattern as they soared in their glory through the midnight sky.

Numen, who knew birds exceptionally well from his childhood hobby of bird watching in the forest near his parent’s old home, did not recognize this particular species of sparrow. His version of the typical sparrow had a black throat, white cheeks, chestnut nape, and a mixture of black and brown feathers. However, these sparrows were enshrouded with evil. Their black and brown feathers had been replaced with midnight black with no contrast in light and dark only black. Deep within their cryptically dark eyes in the back of their skulls could be seen a hypnotic sapphire red flame swaying back and forth. Their eccentricity crept deep into the pit of Numen’s soul.

Oh shit! It was real. I am…Numen! Lance is now a remnant of my pitiful old self to be forgotten for all times.

The black sparrows ascended with elegance high across the bright, cratered full moon. They were unobstructed from his view. Besides a few feathery Cirrus clouds scattered here and there, it was an unusually clear night. He extended his right arm through the window into the air in anticipation to see if the demons would beckon at his billing. One by one, they approached, landing on his arm gazing not into his eyes but at his mind. As each bird looked deep into Numen’s eyes, he could not deny the fear that he felt while in their presence as though they were examining his soul for all his deepest darkest secrets. As they landed on his extended forearm, their claws sliced into his skin. Their claws resembled newly sharpened razors reflecting the rays of light radiating from the multitude of stars and planets from far off galaxies. They each left a noticeable slit piercing through his flesh, but not regular marks or scars in that they did not bleed or bring about any pain. Rather, each wound partially healed instantaneously leaving branding lines across his forearm evenly spaced between his elbow and wrist leaving the impression of many suicide attempts. He watched on in utter disbelief as each bird left behind its mark, flying away only after making a mental and spiritual connection with him.

After the last sparrow had departed, they made a formation in the air mimicking the family crest imprinted on his shoulder. He raised both of his arms into the sky with a look of jubilee like a newborn baby’s smile to his mother. He unearthed a new thrill, which brought him an immense exhilaration.

You will help me to accomplish what I must set out to do.

Numen laughed with an heir of evil and arrogance in knowing what was to come and what he had to do. He was under the full understanding that he had the entire backing of hell itself.

Chapter One

1

It was precisely 11:00pm.

The killer arrived on schedule as anticipated. He parked the stolen Pontiac in the fairly vacant lot of the Cabana Lodge, a second rate motel known to be a Mecca for unsanctioned activity. It was exclusively an ungodly haven for drug dealers and prostitution - the usual elements that cultivated such places to build a market on iniquity. The establishment was located off the Sanhedrin Strip in New Mexico, modestly set back from the main drag to elude public turbulence, brought upon by the usual domestic crowd and seasonal tourists, relishing in the local bars and sultry clubs.

The motel grounds were decorated with exotic palms and magnolia trees around its perimeter to further seclude the property. A lucid neon sign posted at the far entrance was the only structure that boasted attention to the motel, with its flamboyant logo set in a script motif of electric pink and green, flashing the Cabana Lodge name. From there, a macadam pathway heavily flanked with tropical brush on both sides, lead motorists onto the gravel lot, where a complex of stretched bungalow housed a series of low budget rooms. The entire layout of the buildings were arranged like that of a peripheral mall; encompassing the property into a hedged environment, saving for the one entrance. Each building had two floors, with its own cemented staircase climbing on the exterior to the crowning level, where a secured walkway harbored the top chambers. A Mexican tiled awning yielding from the roof sheltered the second floor patio on all of the buildings.

Although this place appeared to be an economy Shangri-La in contrast to other cheap lodges, it still was a shady franchise for those who made a living off leasing a room just to fulfill the worldly lust of consumers interested in a detrimental euphoria of sex and drugs. Of course there were regular patrons who camped here for a couple of nights to be near the menagerie of social festivities in this part of New Mexico - authentic restaurants, strip clubs, and wet bars were the popular spots, but essentially the mainstream public who frequented the motel were those looking to conduct illegal business. It was here that a potential affiliate could find a prevalent medley of ungodly services. A selection of hardcore stimulants - LSD, ecstasy, angel dust, speed, heroine, et cetera, were just a few to name in the pharmacy of drugs, supplemented by private dealers.

In addition to these unbridled assets to the Cabana Lodge, a sadistic home of promiscuous exploits brought out the primitive hunger of mankind to satisfy and be satisfied. The old-fashioned missionary sex was never enough here, or anywhere nonetheless. However, this venue had everything for anyone looking to explore the bestial elevation of sexual intercourse; fiery threesomes of all sinful combinations were celebrated features, among spicy affairs of explicit oral sex, anal copulation, wild orgies, and all kinds of sweaty appetites for immoral intimacy, but a good time did not come without a price. And naturally, the killer had more than enough prospects to burn for that good time. His wallet was healthy, and so was his malevolent passion for bloodshed. It was his trademark to be a depraved bastard with a sinful desire to bring an affliction of mortality. He delivered no salvation to his victims. And mercy was obsolete. His initial prey for the night was easy pickings, much to his benefit.

He sat in the car, contemplating on the lethal endeavor ahead of him, but most importantly, he had to wait for the cardinal factor to complete his itinerary…the victim. He reclined back and closed his eyes, using this solace to meditate until his subject arrived as expected. Given the circumstances, most people would have been plagued with apprehension in his position, vigilantly on guard for anything that could possibly disparage this homicidal excursion, such as the unsolicited company of probable witnesses, or worse, an unforeseen infiltration of police, especially if sitting in a vehicle heisted from a commercial parking lot located a few miles away. But he wasn’t most people, and though adverse conditions could still prove otherwise, he didn’t have to concern himself with such matters.

After casing out this location for roughly two weeks previous to tonight, he was satisfied with the complacent ambience he had discovered here. With all the drugs and sex going on, nobody gave much notice to what he was doing. And the authorities were too busy keeping a tight surveillance on the strip, so consequently they didn’t even bother with an isolated nest that was one step away from burning in hell. On that staple road during the summer, drunken dog fights outside of bars, and candid escapades of all kinds of disorderly conduct were enough to keep the boys in blue on their toes, therefore the Cabana Lodge was far from their priority agenda.

And far from the killer.

He thought about his would-be victim as he sat there in deep mental bliss.

He met the guy yesterday evening at The Bullpen, a sassy club for gentleman looking for dinner and live nude entertainment. A busty call girl by the name of Adrian, who moonlighted as a stripper introduced him to the guy who would later refer to himself as Mr. Rivers. He had valiantly liberated with a caddy laugh and then asked for the name of his new acquaintance.

Darius, the killer plainly reciprocated, and voluntarily took a seat across from Mr. Rivers at the round dining table, interrupting his meal. But he didn’t seem to mind the intrusion. There was no need for him to worry. A middle aged tan skinned man, light brown curly hair cropped short on the sides. Physically fit but not bulky, especially not overbearing.

Mr. Rivers had two bodyguards, one to each side of him with arms folded glaring down at Darius in case he had any ideas. Both were dressed in black suits sporting designer shades to conceal their eyes and the only indication of feelings or emotions. Two statues towering over him, petrified part of the club experience that could have easily been mistaken for decoration. But if he made no sudden movements, then they would confer him by allowing the meeting to continue to its end.

From then on the two men discussed business while Adrian left them alone to do just that. The self proclaimed Darius explained to his new associate that he had met Adrian through the internet, and they had arranged to personally meet each other at the Cabana Lodge on the same night she had agreed to schedule an informal meeting with her employer - a strapping playboy that he now knew as Mr. Rivers. He deliberately left out the part where he and Adrian had a cozy prelude in her room free of charge before the promised engagement at The Bullpen with the middle-aged gigolo. And he certainly didn’t mention that he stalked the motel premises days before he even physically met with Adrian; though he did in fact speak to her about a month ahead of the undercover foray at the Cabana Lodge (It was imperative that he got a feel for its surrounding before he continued with his premeditated conspiracy to get what he wanted from both the pre-Madonna princess, Adrian, and her pimp, Mr. Rivers.

After Darius concluded his brief summation of the events, which lead up to his unceremonious arrival, Mr. Rivers asked, So what can I do for you?

I want two females, he had demanded imprudently. Two beautiful females with meat on their bone. Some substance. No blondes. No redheads with freckles. And no implanted Barbie dolls.

Rivers chuckled heartily.

Darius frowned glaring down at him.

I’m sorry, Rivers said ingenuinely, stifling his laugh to a patronizing smile. It’s just that you look young. A guy like you should be getting pussy for free…playing the field. How old are you by the way?

Does it matter?

No, not at all. I was only curious

Then get un-curious. I don’t have time for irrelevant questions. Money talks, shit walks. So do you want to talk or continue with your incompetent comments?

Rivers stopped smiling abruptly and cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. Okay then, he replied, putting on airs, Allow me to get my book. He pulled out a small black appointment journal from the breast pocket on is Versace blazer along with a costly pen, sliding his plate of barbeque ribs and mashed potatoes off to the side. I need to ask you a few things before I make arrangements.

That’s not necessary. Just take notes while I talk, Darius insisted.

Rivers appeared to be stunned by his coercive disposition, but nevertheless, he obliged at his whim, obediently withdrawing all questions, Go ahead, he urged.

First of all, I don’t like the way you handle business. You trust too many people. If I was an undercover cop, where does that leave you?

Point taken, Rivers agreed concisely with one befitting nod.

I still could be an undercover cop…point or no point, Darius pressed, staring intensely at the chiseled face of his counterpart. I started this conversation, but now it’s up to you to continue it, providing if you trust me now.

Are you a cop? Rivers asked pessimistically.

He wanted so desperately for this inflated ego to squirm in his seat. Heedless of the fact that he only spoke to the man for a short period, he had a conviction that this individual was morbidly arrogant, with an underlying inclination to conduct his affairs religiously, having no tolerance for games, lest there be dire consequences. To others, he may intrinsically look like a typical big shot, laced with tailored suits and polished shoes, but was all in all a harmless man with just a bloated ego (after all, what man wouldn’t have bragging rights if they drove around in a hummer with an entourage of fine women at his disposal.

Darius knew better, only because he saw a reflection of himself in that man’s soul. He saw someone deadly…someone who always got his way even if there had to be devastating repercussions. Someone that had to die.

Darius hated Mr. Rivers. Yet, there was something madly prophetic about this man whom he vehemently despised, that something had strangely moved him. It was in his name. Rivers…it uttered a proverbial meaning to him. Yes, it was eccentric for him to feel this way, and it was for this reason he perpetually fostered his thoughts solely to himself, because his thought were more or less bizarre on any given day. And at that moment, he experienced another episode of this contingency. Rivers…Rivers…it spoke to him. Rivers…the genesis of life would cease to exist without its sequestered waters. An incessant force, which hummed across continents, stipulating translucent nectar to all species near and far. None could imagine a day without the purity it brought to the inhabitants surrounding this shrine of nature. It was everlasting. It was…eternal.

Darius wanted to be that river.

But he couldn’t. Goddammit, he couldn’t. Life was an arbitrary stepping stone of nothing but tribulations, presenting a restitution of death in the end…well at least that is how he looked at it. Life to him was a harrowing genocide of those living in its god-awful atrocity. And as a result, he remained a grave casualty of it, only breathing every day because it was involuntary. He wasn’t going to take his own life in protest to the damn injustice of it. Hell no, he wasn’t. But he was more than inclined to bring a fatal blow to the lives of others, a cut-throat execution that would plunge his unlucky subordinates into a cryptic, and unfortunate, finish. It was therapeutic, and just so fulfilling, particularly if it was someone he painfully condemned. And Mr. Rivers was very expendable.

Well, are you? Rivers had enquired.

Am I what? Darius countered.

Undercover. Weren’t you listening to yourself?

No.

"No, you weren’t listening to yourself?

No, I’m not undercover. Stupid ass. I was starting to believe that you weren’t as stupid as you portray, Darius said with a stern, unbreakable posture. But I guess I was wrong."

I figured as much, River said jauntily.

Now let’s get to the matter at hand…’I want to cut off your dick and shove it down your fuckin’ throat you stupid ass,’…I want to talk about tomorrow night.

Rivers leaned forward and lace his fingers together with his hands resting on top of the table.

Go ahead. I’m listening.

Tomorrow night I want you to bring -Darius tapped Rivers’ black journal. I said take notes.

Oh right, Rivers straightened up and then poised himself with pen in hand, ready to dictate what was he needed."

Tomorrow night I want you to bring two brunettes, and I’ll bring two grand. Darius had fished into the deep interior pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a thick wad of strapped cash in twenties, spotting it down on the table, That will be yours if I’m satisfied.

Rivers leaned forward again, leering uncertainly at the capital before him. You, uh, can’t spring out dough like that around here, he divulged quietly, Too many witnesses, you know. Maybe I’ll take care of that for you.

He snickered roguishly and commenced to grab for the money, but Darius rashly beat him to the punch, seizing his hand in his own clutches. Rivers flinched in response to the quick maneuver."

Ahh! Don’t fuck with my money, Darius warned menacingly through clenched teeth grimacing as he rubbed his injured shoulder. He had aggravated the injury that he was trying to care for. You have plenty of it. I don’t.

You alright, man… Rivers asked sincerely not wanting anyone to blame him for any injuries sustained while in his presence."

Nothing. Just hurt my shoulder the other day. He was still babying his wound. After rubbing it a bit, he raised his shirt sleeve to see if the bandages had shifted or were still tight around his wound, which they were.

Well, doesn’t seem like that to me, pal, Rivers said, snatching his hand away from his grasp, If you don’t have much, then why give me your lifesavings?

It’s not my lifesavings. With me, too much is never enough. You see, I have thousands coming out of my ass, but I’m never satisfied. Understand what I’m telling you?

More than anyone else, my friend. You can trust me on that. Rivers grinned broadly, flashing the deep lines which framed his signature smile like badge. He sat back comfortably, taking a sip of his Chianti, eyeing the female dancer performing on stage. How about a chick like that?

Darius turned around and saw a brown-haired beauty, showcasing her figure in just a shimmering thong and matching spiked heels. Her breasts were fully exposed as she knelt down, swaying seductively in motion as she rubbed her entire body up and down. Her juicy thighs greased in passion oil, as was the rest of her body, but it was in between those inviting thighs he wanted to see. She was by far a very decent-looking girl, but he had in truth seen much prettier women, and ones less artificially tanned. However, he was more pleased than disappointed - her breasts were real, though not entirely big, yet firm; her nipples were light and perky, a tantalizing blend; her body was more skinny that he would’ve like, but in nondescript terms, she was good enough to fulfill any man’s fantasy.

Her name is Dynasty, Rivers pointed out. Isn’t she hot or what?

Darius turned back around to face Rivers. She works for you? he asked

Sure does, and then some. Jesus Christ, she gives good head. She’s a dime a dozen around here, but what man could live with just one beautiful woman. He paused to take another sip of his drink. I come here to check out the merchandise, he went on. "After the show wraps up, I wait in the parking lot and wait for these girls to come out, then I make an interesting proposal to the ones I like… you know. Get a few into my line of work. I offer money, but most times dope can turn these ladies into tricks. Just like I did with Adrian. She’s a beauty, but a real dope-fiend.

Rivers laughed, shaking his head in disdain.

Is that right? Darius commented, staring coyly at this man without smiling one bit.

Speaking of Adrian, Rivers continued, what do you think of her?

She’s blonde…cute… Darius shrugged. Not much to say about her."

Nice tits, though.

They’re fake.

But nice you have to admit.

And still fake, dammit! Rivers, I’m not paying you two grand for a pathetic whore with a boob job I could get done myself.

You’re a funny man, Darius, Rivers said, smiling in brusque amusement at his expense. But even you have to admit she’s good enough for at least one night.

Would you want ‘good enough’ for two grand?

Well, I wasn’t really suggesting that she’s worth anything at all. I just wanted your opinion on the matter.

Didn’t I already tell you I don’t like irrelevant-.

Questions, Rivers finished, putting up one hand in defense. I know, I know. I was just--.

Curious, maybe? Darius counteracted. We went down this road before. Now let’s get off it before I get pissed.

Alright. We’ll get back to business. So, what is your take on Dynasty?

Dynasty is not bad. I’ll have her, and another one like her.

Rivers jotted down a cursory memo into his journal and then asked, When do you want to-?

Eleven, Darius interrupted, expediting this meeting along. Tomorrow night at the Cabana Lodge. I’ll be looking for you. And if you don’t show up, I’ll still be looking for you. But of course you would be an idiot to turn down this money.

Of course, Rivers echoed in a sterling agreement.

Good. Just don’t be late.

An idiot is never late.

Then write that down…

******

2

And the sonofabitch was late.

Still sitting in the car, Darius finally opened his eyes and checked his watch…approximately fifteen minutes late. He had not heard a car drive up on the gravel, so he knew that nobody entered the lot since his arrival. He looked around the area from his seat to confirm what he had already suspected. And sure enough, there was nobody new… just three cars and a red metallic SUV.

Shit, he muttered bitterly, checking his watch again in vane. He sighted ardently, pitching back in his seat, feeling his trigger finger itch with madness. He didn’t like to wait. And when he had to wait he would become fiercely irritated. But in spite of himself, he waited.

And waited…

Roughly twenty minutes after he last checked, his boy finally decided to show up.

Mr. Rivers’ beloved ride, the Impala, rolled onto the lot with its brights turned on loudly trumpeting his entrance. He parked several feet away exiting the vehicle, dressed in a cobalt double-breasted suit with brass buttons. His dark graying hair was combed back with gel as usual, giving him a dapper appeal, in addition to his golden complexion and flawless posture. He sauntered his way over to the passenger side and escorted his female companion out of the door. The woman stepped out in a leopard-print cat suit and six-inch platforms, with a thick mane of feathered brown hair, falling delicately down to her shoulders. From the backseat, the lovely Dynasty opened her own door and departed from her place in the rear, immaculately adorned in a slinky devil red dress, which was dangerously short, and red pumps to compliment the tight number she had on.

Darius disengaged the power locks to his own car (well only for this occasion it was his car), and dutifully abandoned the vehicle to meet up with Rivers. The soles of his vintage hiker boots crunched against the gravel as he jogged over. Rivers was just slamming the passenger door closed when he made it. Upon his arrival, Darius randomly greeted the ladies and then faced Rivers, issuing a disingenuous smile to the narcissistic and late bastard.

You know what? Darius replied, shaking his head and laughing lightly in feigned humor. You said I was a funny man, but you… he pointedly wagged a finger at him, with an exaggerated façade of amusement plastered to his countenance … but you are hilarious. I said be here at eleven, and what do you do? You get here about thirty mutha fuckin’ minutes late. I guess that makes you an idiot, huh?

Look, man. I’m sorry, Rivers apologized blandly. Traffic was just a bitch tonight. All of these damn tourists, and the Fourth of July weekend, blah, blah, blah…anyway I’m here, so let’s get started. You already know Dynasty, but this friend of mine you haven’t seen yet is Dallas. I call these two the Double D’s because both of their names begin with D. I was thinking of making you the third Supreme since, after all, your name is Darius.

Rivers laughed at his own stupid rendition for a joke.

He’s high, Dallas chimed, rolling her eyes. Don’t mind him.

I never do, Darius said.

My God, aren’t you hot in that? Dynasty replied, critically staring at the bulky windbreaker Darius always wore. "It’s kinda muggy out tonight.

I’m okay, he simply answered.

He’s more than okay, girls, Rivers announced grandly, draping one arm over Darius’ shoulder.

This guy right here is loaded. Two thousand mucho grande bucks, he says. Two thousand for some ass. Isn’t that something?

Sounds desperate, Dynasty said curtly. But I guess I’m worth that much, even if it is desperate.

You’re the one standing here half-naked…so what does that make you? Mother fuckin’ Theresa? Darius berated the self-righteous Jezebel

That is not funny. I happen to be Catholic, okay? So get that damn chip off your should and shove it up your ass.

I suppose you parade in your birthday suit for Communion and give the Pope a nice little lap dance don’t you, you backsliding bitch.

Dallas giggled. Dynasty glared at her icily."

I didn’t come here to be insulted by you, she told Darius.

I know, you came here to turn water into wine, so I could get drunk enough to fuck a slut like you…Catholic school girl, Darius returned, putting up quotational bunny ears with his fingers for the latter statement he had stressed.

You know what? Fuck you.

That’s what I’m paying for you to do.

Do you have a remark for every damn thing I say? I don’t know why I even bother-.

Kids, kids, Rivers intervened, straddling his free arm over Dynasty’s shoulder, and embracing both her and Darius in a tight hook. Let’s all play nice. This is business, not a circus. He released them and then dug into one pocket of his fleece trousers, pulling out a joint. Now, Darius buddy, as Adrian might have mentioned, I provide these girls with security. And naturally, I’m their man. So you lead the way and we will follow, then we could get this party started.

We’re going up to room 12B, Darius instructed.

12B…12B… Rivers repeated, quizzically. Isn’t that Adrian’s room?

I paid her to skip out for awhile so we could borrow it, Darius explained.

Well, okay. Let’s go. Rivers