Locri: Portal To Hell

By P.Z. Johns

A young witch named Midnight, finds her mystic teacher dead in a cemetery in New York City. He was killed after he uncovered a plot to break down the gates to hell and the task now falls to her to stop countless demons from overrunning the world. But Midnight isn't sure if she is ready to take on such a huge task alone. Being questioned by the police who suspect her of the murder in the cemetery, Midnight must first find the gates to hell. To help her, she calls on her guardian angel, and after investigating, they decide they must go to the Temple of Persephone in Locri in southern Italy.

 

There she meets an Italian witch who has been having nightmares about the gates of hell. Because of their common problems, the two witches team-up, and confront the evil witch who is behind the plot, but Midnight doesn't realize the same evil witch is her actual birth mother. The time finally comes when she must find out if she truly is as powerful as her mentor always told her she was, and if she has the will to oppose her own mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.Z. Johns
• Release date: Jun 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201799205

P.Z. Johns

P. Z. Johns was born in Canada and now lives with his Illinois-born wife in the United States. After spending a lifetime reading science fiction, P. Z. started writing when he retired from a career in business. He began working on a science fiction novel but set that aside to complete a family memoir dedicated to his daughter. At the same time, he reviewed new books for a sci-fi publisher. This book is the second of his novels dedicated to his daughter. When he is not writing, P. Z. is an avid video gamer and enjoys meeting players from around the world. He has begun work on another novel entitled “Locri: Portal to Hell.”

Book preview

Other Books by P.Z. Johns

The Sum of Small Efforts

Wildfire

When Strangers Marry

Greenbank Cemetery

Cemeteries comfort my soul. I don’t find them frightening, or spooky, the way horror movies portray them. Instead, the peaceful setting calms me and seems to settle my demons. Tonight, the smell of marigolds and maybe the beginning of some chrysanthemums was in the air. I worked in a cemetery back home in Louisiana—in the office, not digging—and I would spend my lunch hour sitting in the large mausoleum. On pleasant sunny days, I would spend time by the cremation wall, where they placed all the urns. At other times I would go into the building that held rows of crypts built into the walls, ten vaults long and four rows high. Sometimes I’d sit and talk to the residents and other times I would read to them. I would tell them about the news of the day or about things that happened in my life, just anything to pass the time and keep the residents company. I knew whose family would visit often and who never saw guests. So, I talked to these unvisited residents the most, just to keep them company. Other times, I would just read out loud from whatever book I had at the time. I thought they liked my attention, at least I hoped they did. No, I know they did because so far none of the cemetery residents ever sat up and told me to ‘keep-all-that-racket-down’.

This cemetery had the same feel as the one where I worked, yet I was still very unsettled. It was three in the morning and my witch senses knew evil had been about. I was in the Greenbank Cemetery in Brooklyn. I had been here before, and the next of kin had filled the rolling hills with large monuments and statues. In this cemetery, wealthy families erected statues and sculptures for their loved ones, instead of tombstones, to mark the graves. It was amazing because obelisks, lions, ancient Greek and Roman gods and goddesses stood everywhere. Some even wealthier families built crypts or small mausoleums and would decorate them with statues of angels holding swords to guard their dearly departed. To me, it was better than being in a museum, but even surrounded by all this artwork, my witch senses were telling me to be cautious.

My name is Midnight. At least Midnight is what I call myself. Mom back in Louisiana, Rose Drake, originally named me Melissa. So technically, I guess I should say my name is Midnight Drake, but here in a cemetery in New York City in the middle of the night, the name Midnight by itself seems to fit me better. I dress in black like a Goth to show people I am every inch a witch. In this cemetery, I blend in perfectly but I know my adversaries use more than eyesight to sniff out their prey.

As I rounded a bend in the path, I approached a gray concrete crypt with the name DANTE above the door. When I saw the lifeless body of a small, frail old man, my heart sank. Not stopping to search for adversaries, I fell to my knees and cried. The old man was Peter Semple, my teacher and mentor in witchcraft. Someone had propped his corpse up in a sitting position against the door of the crypt, and I could tell the murderer staged the scene. A statue of an angel was standing at the door of the crypt with one hand pointing downwards, as if to say, ‘You don’t want to think about what is down there.’ The murderer positioned Peter's body in line with the angel’s pointing hand. His body was crumpled and twisted, and he still held his dagger in his right hand. Peter once told me the dagger’s name was Ahmes, which meant Child of the Moon in ancient Egyptian. He said that an ancient blacksmith forged the blade from a meteorite and an ancient Egyptian sorceress named Netchemit gave the knife it’s powers. She planned to use the dagger to slay demons, so she infused it with a spell that would suck the soul and life power out of a demon. Instead of sending them to the Abysmal plane where they naturally lived, the dagger sucked the demon’s essence into the blade. Peter warned me, though, that it would do that to any creature it stabbed, so never draw it haphazardly. He never told me how many demons were already in the dagger, but I would think that since the Egyptian times, the dagger has found its targets numerous times. Peter also warned me that before I used Ahmes, I had to master my control over my own demons in case they reared at me for using it on their own kind.

Looking at my friend lying at the door of this crypt I cried, Oh Peter, I'm guessing you didn't get a chance to use this. Through my tears, I slowly reached and took the dagger from his grip. My inner demons grumbled when I held the knife, but they settled when I slid the dagger into my hip purse. I made a mental note to find a sheath for the dagger.

With a slow counterclockwise movement of my left hand, I scanned for anyone, human, witch or demon. More precisely, I was banishing anything, or anyone, to keep them away from me. When I confirmed I was alone with my mentor; I burst into a storm of tears. All I could get out was, Peter, I came as fast as I could. I am so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry I did not get here sooner.

Peter had been my teacher and friend, and perhaps a proxy for my grandfather, since I was young. He was a very old man when he first came to see me. I’m pretty sure he was over one hundred years old, back fifteen years ago. He came when I was ten, after my nightmares started. I told my mother that I was having the same nightmare over and over. In my dream, a demon would laugh in a deep and evil way, and he would tell me he came to take me back to hell, where I rightfully belonged. Rose adopted me when I was born and was a witch like me. Rose said my actual mother was dead, and she explained that they sent me to live with her because she could raise me in the craft. I was never clear who made that decision, a witch's council, or some such. Children tend not to be too questioning about adult judgments and I was no different. I accepted what she told me, but I later discovered that was not entirely true.

It was Peter's task to teach me more than what Rose could. He always said I was a powerful witch, and he could help me grow stronger, but he also told me I was part demon. Peter told me that my father may have been a demon, and this naturally passed to me. With Peter's help, I came to learn to control my demon side and, as the years passed, I learned to use some of my demon abilities, but I could always feel them, under the surface, and they were always ready to act. I never wanted to find out what my demons were truly capable of if they ever got their way, but Peter was there to help me... and now he’s gone. 

I also cried because Peter and I argued the last time we were together. It ended badly, and I stormed out. Our problems started a few months ago when Peter announced that we needed to deal with a special issue that had come up. Apparently, a powerful witch was planning to break down the gates of hell and Peter confronted her about it. I guess she told him to stay out of her way or he could easily find himself exactly in the position he is in right now in this cemetery. She told him she was working with an incredibly old and senior demon in hell named Malacoda. With him on the inside, so to speak, and her on the outside, it was not a question of 'if' they could succeed. The issue was more 'when' they could accomplish their task.

The sad part is that I know Peter took up this last challenge because he worried about me. If the gates of hell came down all manner of evil could be let loose on the land, and I say that literally not figuratively, not only would the dead be free to roam the land, but every manner of demon, from the relatively minor impish types to the far more senior deadly types, would be free to wreak hell and havoc on innocent people. Peter said it would make a zombie apocalypse look like an amusement park. In a situation like that, I don’t know how long I could maintain control over my own demons. Ever since he helped me, he was teaching me to have confidence in my witch side. That by being human, whatever that really means, and by being a determined witch, I could always overcome my inner demons. I think I can handle the determined part, so maybe I will rid myself of my demons someday.

After a while, though, Peter got evasive with me. Peter has always been a very exacting and detailed person. To him, clarity of mind, knowledge of all aspects of a problem, and a determined focus were the basic tools needed to solve any problem. As a teacher, he was always sure to give all sides of an issue before offering a solution. But this new challenge of ours seemed to be different. First, he got vague about who the witch was. I didn’t care who she was, but I could tell that sometimes he would not look me in the eye and that was not like Peter. To make matters worse, he would side-step any answers when I would ask why we were the ones who had to stop the plot. It seemed to me that an issue like this would get the highest attention of inner witch circles, or even of the guardians of the three realms—our physical plane, the cherished Ethereal plane, and the Abysmal plane. I thought it was strange that a young twenty-five-year-old novice and her one hundred-and-fifteen-year-old teacher had the task. Peter told me I was more powerful than I know, and between the two of us, we could completely deal with this witch and her demon cohort. Seeing him dead in front of me now, however, I am not so sure. 

Our last argument was about tactics. Peter was suggesting caution. He said we needed more information. I argued to attack this witch. Typical squabble between youthful energy versus elder wisdom. The elder says, 'look before you leap' and the youth says, 'let’s just bust in and kick her ass'. To that, Peter said, Do I need to remind you who pulled your ass out of the fire, quite literally, the last time you took on a senior demon?

That’s what made me angry. I responded, Well, ain't that just like you. You think you got all the answers. Why don't you throw a mistake in my face? That’s when I stormed out. I think Peter was not as confident as he pretended to be in my ability to control my demon side. In a fight with an actual demon, my inner dark self might rebel against my human self. Seeing him dead in front of me now, I am sorry I got angry. Now I feel so very alone. Peter's been my teacher for fifteen years. I don’t know what I'll do without him, and I don’t know if I can finish this job by myself.

I knelt at that crypt for too long and knew it was not safe for me to linger too long. I spoke to Peter one last time. I'm sorry to leave you like this, my friend, but I should not move you. I must let the authorities find you. It will not take long. I got up and began walking away. Not too far down the path, I heard the tinkle of metal on the concrete path behind me. I spun and used all my senses, human and witch, to see who was there. No one, nothing except a coin on the walkway. Someone, or something, dropped a coin behind me and ensured it made enough noise that I would notice. I picked up the coin and examined it. It was ancient and had unusual markings on it. Was it a clue? Did Peter do this? I don’t know. He was more prone to holding on to something he wanted me to have, like the dagger. Did the demon leave it, or is someone else baiting me? I don't know, but I put the coin in my hip purse and walked out of the cemetery. 

Agnieska

It was about four-thirty in the morning when I left the cemetery. I wanted to contact my spiritual guide, so I walked toward a street bench in front of the cemetery gates. When I sat down, I pulled my legs up and crossed them in a lotus position. Resting the back of my wrists on my knees, with my fingertips touching my thumbs, I took deep breaths and calmly focused on my spiritual guide. I silently called to Agnieska in my mind.

At the same time, a street punk was walking towards me. This gangbanger was still about a half block away, but I could tell he was wearing an oversized jacket with a New York Knicks logo on it. The guy wore his pants low and held his waistband with his left hand. He used a half-bounce step to his walking stride. His boxer shorts were obvious and colored orange to match the basketball logo. When he saw me, he must have thought I was a hooker or some other form of street skank. Either way, he thought he could have some fun with me.

I certainly was not in the mood for this punk, and I slowly raised my hand, mumbled a little and made a horizontal figure-eight sign in the air. I then pointed to the gangbanger walking towards me. One of my demons emerged and took the form of a black panther. It was Shadrach. There were two others, Meshach and Abednego, but from the looks of this lone gangbanger, I did not think I needed them all. 

Back when I was about twelve, I named my demons Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. At the time, I heard the Bible story about three Hebrew boys that King Nebuchadnezzar threw into a fiery furnace. I do not remember much about the story or who they were or why the King did that. All I remember was that kings back in those days were always assholes. Well, not entirely. I guess David and Solomon were good guys, but I think even they had their moments. Then again, I didn’t really pay a lot of attention in Sunday school. There might have been other wonderful kings, but I don’t remember. And yes, I went to Sunday school! My foster-mother thought I should have a well-rounded education—church on Sunday and demon spells on Monday—but that is a story for another time. The truth was, when I gave my demons their names, I was not thinking about anything symbolic. I just liked the names and thought they were cute, and so the names Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego stuck.

———oOo———

The gangbanger was walking up the street, listening to music on his ear buds, when he saw the girl. He thought he would have some fun and maybe he could even get laid, whether she wanted to cooperate or not. He stopped walking and took off his ear buds and placed them in his jacket pocket. The same pocket where he had a small inch bag of ice, excellent quality crystal meth from his dealer. Maybe he could persuade her to get high with him. Suddenly, the street kid saw a panther the size of a motorcycle growling at him. It was a low and quiet growl, but he knew the panther was looking at him. He did not see the big cat a minute ago, and its image seemed to flicker and change every few seconds. Sometimes he would see a gargoyle with a hideous face and wings; the kind that would sit on top of old churches and castles. At other times, he would see a panther standing and staring at him with evil in its eyes. He knew this big cat was intent on protecting its master.

The street kid kept walking but much slower as he watched the panther, but it did not seem to move. He thought that the last hit of meth he took must have had some other goofy shit in it. That must be what was making him see the big cat. He thought maybe he would see elephants and giraffes next. The panther roared. The kid stopped, but then took a careful step forward. After a moment, he took another step. He did not notice the girl on the bench raise her hand and flick her index finger in his direction. It was the motion someone would use to flick a fly off their arm using their middle finger and thumb. 

Shadrach growled and took a step towards the gangbanger. The kid stopped walking. He guessed there were about thirty feet between them. He realized the panther could make up that distance in a heartbeat. But wait! He thought, ‘This has got to be bad meth.’ He took another step forward.

The panther raised its head, gave a deafening roar, and took the image of a gargoyle for a quick moment. It stepped forward and lowered its head back down, almost touching the ground. Its nostrils flared and eyes flamed and narrowed. The ganger knew that was a sure sign the panther, or whatever it was, was giving one last warning. That crouch meant the panther would charge next. The kid took a step back, and the panther took a step forward, still crouching low. The banger took another step back when the leopard roared.

At that, the ganger turned and ran. He didn’t know if it was bad drugs or if this was all real. Either way, he was not about to take chances. Being New York City, he thought he might have run into a bat-shit crazy chick who has a panther as a pet. He did not realize how close to the truth he was, except this chick had more than one demon she could unleash at any one time.

———oOo———

I smiled and thought to myself, 'that trick works every time,' as I called commands to Shadrach, Stop, and it broke off approaching the kid; followed by, Come, and it returned to me; and ending with Sit and it sat beside me at the bench. Being in the middle of the night, I thought of letting my demon guard for a while, but then thought again. It would be too much of a distraction, so I simply commanded, Sleep, and my demon slowly vanished.

I re-focused on my connection to my spiritual guide and in a few moments Agnieska came to me, saying. I'm here, Midnight and she continued as a voice in my ear, I know about Peter and don’t worry, he is with us. He dwells on our side now. I started crying again. "I understand my sweetness. Let it out, Midnight. Let it out."

Agnieska always spoke to me on my left side, almost directly into my left ear. Not like she was sitting on my shoulder, more like she was sitting beside me. At least that was the way I always pictured her, and it was not like there really was the sound of her voice. I only knew when she was with me and when she was 'speaking to me' in an odd use of that phrase.

Rose, my foster-mother, explained to me that Agnieska was my guardian angel. Peter said that she was my spiritual advisor that could always help me through my dark moments. Agnieska, though, never said those things. She only ever said she was my companion and friend. She seemed to know I never had real friends, and she was always there for me, and she always seemed to know what I was thinking. Agnieska waited until I stopped crying, or at least slowed, and said, My sweet girl, I will try to arrange for Peter to speak to you. Perhaps you can speak to both of us at the same time.

Oh Aggie, is that even possible? I called her Aggie most of the time and it did not seem to violate her connection rules, whatever that means.

But, please be patient, child. It may take some time. Peter is still a postulate, and a very new one at that, and he needs time to coalesce, but I will see what I can do.

At that precise moment someone, or something, broke into my conversation with Agnieska. An evil voice laughed and bellowed at me, Well, isn't this just too, too heartbreaking. The little bitch's teacher died. Maybe her spiritual guide can set up a group hug-fest. That way, we'll all be able to face-time. He laughed and roared, but then said, But I don't think that old man will want to talk to me because I'm the one who killed him!

I didn't know what to do or say. I could tell my link to Agnieska had been severed. I could only get out, Who are you? What do you want?

The voice answered, The little bitch has questions! Golly, I hope she doesn't get angry with me! He again gave out a laughing roar. I'm Malacoda. I dwell on the sixth level of hell. You're welcome to visit me anytime you want. In fact, your demons belong beside me in my world.

I repeated, Why are you doing this? What do you want? You are the one from my nightmares so long ago!

I am here to give you one warning, bitch. Stay out of my way or you will get what Peter got!

Are you talking about the gates of hell thing? I asked.

You are helpless without your teacher. Again, that laugh, Or should I say, hopeless? He then roared, No matter, bitch, you're finished. Oh, and need I remind you that your puny teacher had to save your ass when you tried to take on a mid-level demon? You certainly are not capable of taking me on. Again, that roaring laugh.

I answered, I will find a way and I'll avenge Peter's death. I don't know how, but I will find a way! I swear, demon! Wow, I thought to myself, who am I kidding?

Enough bitch, he bellowed, and he instantly vanished, or disappeared, or disconnected as quickly as he broke into my spiritual link with Agnieska. I tried to reach her again and again, but my focus was off. Even when I stopped trying to reach her, I could hear the demon’s laughter off in the distance. I thought, Maybe I will be able to re-link to Agnieska when he finds somebody else to pester.

———oOo———

A woman across the street had taken in the entire scene. Midnight did not see her because she stayed in the shadows, hidden in a doorway. She had blond hair and wore a rose in her hair above her right ear. She appeared to be the same age as Midnight, but that is where any similarities ended. This woman was very much dressed for the disco scene and radiated her sexuality, but she carried herself in a way that showed a level of experience that was far beyond her appearance. Besides watching, the woman could eavesdrop on Midnight’s conversations with Agnieska and the demon. She smiled and thought to herself, "The young witch may have promise. At least the panther trick was cute, and she certainly can handle Malacoda. The problem is that she doesn’t know that yet. She will have to learn that she can take him down if she takes a mind too. Perhaps I will need to keep an eye on her for a little while."

Outside Budapest, Hungary

While it was the middle of the night in the United States, it was roughly mid-day in Hungary. In an old Greek-Orthodox cemetery outside of Budapest, a woman paced in front of a gray crypt with the name DANTE above the door. Curiously, the crypt looked almost identical to the one in the Greenbank Cemetery in New York City. It even had the same statue of an angel standing at the door of the crypt with