Rift

By Jason Gehlert

The perfect companion piece to one of Jason Gehlert’s infamous characters, Jeremiah Black. RIFT completes a thrillogy for the demonic hitman, tying up loose ends from the prequel Sacrificial Sons and its sequel Jeremiah Black while offering a new take on the franchise. RIFT offers other great standalone stories, poems and horrifying characters. Gehlert’s RIFT offers personal stories as well, torn between fiction and reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Bed Sheet Books
• Release date: Aug 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005777401

Book preview

RIFT

Jason Gehlert

Rift

A Black Bed Sheet/Diverse Media Book

August 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Jason Gehlert

All rights reserved.

Cover copyright © 2022 Jason Gehlert

The selections in this book are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

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

ISBN-10: 1-946874-97-3

ISBN-13: 978-1-946874-97-9

RIFT

A Black Bed Sheet/Diverse Media Book

Antelope, CA

Also by Jason Gehlert

Demon Revolver

Jeremiah Black

Ghost Prints

Contagion

Filter

Carnie Creek

Sacrificial Sons

Dying Light

The Ferrymen

Europa Trilogy

Quiver Series

The Bride of Lazarus

The Woodsman

Cinema

City of Madness

and more!

Foreword

This collection has taken a while for me to write and it offers a variety of stories both old and new. There are several that are companion pieces to my latest novella in over six years, Sacrificial Sons. Those stories are Soul Searcher, Diary of the Dead, Caretaker, Diner, and Tennessee Charlie. These stories are designed to wrap up the loose ends and to offer further insight into the many characters who traverse my literary world, especially Jeremiah Black.

I have also decided to bookend this collection with a set of poems. The first is an unpublished poem from my late mother, called Forgotten Lands and written when she was a young woman. Her dreams of being published always pushed her passion to write and to this day offer support and guidance to me in her own way. The last poem is a dedication to her and a heartfelt reminder of how her existence is still as dominant today as it ever was.

I would also like to thank Black Bed Sheet and Nicholas Grabowsky for taking on this project and breathing new life into this writer. I have been dealing with a variety of memory issues, that have bogged down not only my writing and passion but my everyday life as well. I allude to this struggle throughout this collection and completing this project will be my first one since undergoing these struggles, along with another Black Bed Sheet publication of mine, City of Madness.

Thank you to my friends, fellow authors, and family for their support.

There will be more stories to tell…

I guarantee it-

Parchment of Lore

Forgotten Land

Soul Searcher

Hello, Operator

Frequency

Devil’s Horde

Lighthouse

The Old Man and the Raven

Devil’s Island

Diary of the Dead

Know Your Enemy

Kraken

Caretaker

The Fisherman

Darkness Swallows

Parched

The Box

Burial

Beaver’s Claw

The Devil’s Toll

Diner

Reborn

Tennessee Charlie

Light

Torch

The Apartment

EEG

Interstate

Carol Ann

Forgotten Land

The mountains ran high,

The valleys ran low,

Gentle breezes,

Remembered to blow

Clear crystal brooks,

And sharp-scented pines,

Etched the valley,

In dark green lines

Flowers, their hues beyond belief,

Endless mirth conquered grief,

Lifting laughter filled the air,

Treasures were these, too precious to be called rare

Then one day these people forgot,

To whom they owed this precious lot,

Their church stood bone barren, their souls turned away,

And then it happened, that one fateful day

The mountains crumbled,

The valley sank,

Gentle breezes,

Now blew dank

If they had just once offered their prayers,

If they knew of gratitude or ascended his stairs,

None of these things,

Had they ever did,

And so it was taken,

And so it was hid,

Never again a breeze will blow,

Where the mountains ran high,

And the valleys ran low

--Carol Ann Gehlert 1964

Soul Searcher

His chapped fingers unfastened the top of the Whiskey bottle. This shall spice up the evening, the voice cackled. Cinnamon fire red, the voice said. It’s one of my favorites.

His steady hand poured the glass for his opponent.

The train kept a steady pace on the tracks. A tunnel was fast approaching. The last stop of the night and only four passengers remained.

Thank you, the man said. How about you?

Oh, I prefer the bottle. He brought it to his cracked lips. He took off his trusted top hat and placed it on the table. Fancy a game for your soul? He laughed. His left hand read the first name on his list.

I don’t understand, the man said. He took a drink from the glass of whiskey. He felt the hard burn, his throat swelled from the burst of alcohol. His mouth suffered a reactive twinge. And, who are you, by the way?

Ah, yes, introductions. His darkened eyes stared down at the weak man. Jeremiah. Jeremiah Black.

Who sent you?

Well, the Devil of course. Jeremiah pocketed the note and drank hard from the bottle.

I have no business with him.

Beckett, Beckett, Beckett, Jeremiah chuckled. You are a gambler. Eyes deep in debt. Your name came up on my list. Jeremiah withdrew the yellow piece of paper. I’ve been at this for a century, he paused, and a few decades. He waved the note around. So, if you’re name is on this list, it’s time to meet your fate. He smacked his lips. And, as a bonus, I’m here for your son as well.

Beckett placed his hands on the table. You listen to me, motherfucker. I don’t know what your game is.

Oh, my game is poker, Jeremiah smiled. His rotting teeth were rattling in place. His dark stringy hair bounced from the snickering. He placed the note on the table.

Keep my son out of it. Beckett’s hands began to sweat. He has nothing to do with this.

Neither did I! Jeremiah seethed spit. It burned on the table and seared several holes in the deck of cards. I was innocent, living my life, and fate fucked it all up. So, welcome to the club Beckett.

There has to be a way out of this.

Simple, Jeremiah said. I’m in a giving mood. I’d say chalk it up to the whiskey.

What’s your proposition. I don’t want to die tonight.

Jeremiah picked up the cards. He began dealing. The train picked up speed. If you win, I’ll spare you and the boy.

And if I lose?

Then your soul will be mine. Jeremiah flicked the cards back and forth until the match was set.

And my son? Beckett asked. He’s a unique individual.

Oh, we know Beckett. I was sent here for his soul as well. His is a bit more special than yours. Jeremiah shuffled his cards around. His has a bit more energy than yours.

Beckett felt the pressure. His hands trembled. They were alone in the car. An overnight Amtrak from New York City to Philadelphia.

What’s in Philadelphia? Hmm, Beckett, I’m asking you a fucking question, Jeremiah asked. His eyes kept paced with Beckett. It’s a bit of a trip for a diseased gambler.

There’s a convention in Pittsburgh. Beckett traded out cards. I see you sweating. I have you right where I want you.

Jeremiah laughed. Did you know there’s a three hundred and eleven million, eight hundred and seventy-five thousand, and two hundred ways to deal these cards? He took a drink. I’d say you have some overwhelming odds to defeat me.

Beckett shook his head. Are you ready?

Jeremiah nodded. Take a drink, Beckett. It will calm your jitters.

No, Beckett said.

Take the fucking drink, urged Jeremiah.

Beckett took the drink. If you win, you’ll never find my son.

Jeremiah shrugged his shoulders. I’ll find him. Don’t worry.

Beckett placed down his hand. Full house. He took another drink.

The train approached the tunnel.

Jeremiah placed his cards down. Royal flush. It seems that it’s time to pay off your debt.

Beckett squirmed. He heard the whiskey bottle crack against the table.

The train entered the tunnel. The lights whizzed by in dizzying flashes.

Beckett felt the whiskey bottle puncture his neck. His mouth gasped for air. A sea of red gushed from the wound, and then his mouth welled up with blood. Gurgling, his eyes met Jeremiah’s. Those red, crimson pupils flared with intensity. Jeremiah inhaled Beckett’s soul. His powers were too much for the dying man. Jeremiah felt alive. That was a divine feed. Your scent was cinnamon fire whiskey and warm blood.

Jeremiah finished off Beckett as the train escaped from the tunnel and into the open landscape.

Jeremiah vanished and left the quivering remains of his victim’s head down on the table. The blood glided off the table, its perfect droplets falling to the floor beneath.

Jeremiah adjusted his hat and opened the door to the adjoining car. Charles, come out, come out wherever you are!

Jeremiah’s backstory was a well-versed one. His parents were part of the doomed town of Ocracoke that was controlled by the Devil in 1850s North Carolina. Jeremiah’s childhood was pristine and he lived a humble life. His father saved the town, beat back the Devil by encasing its spirit in the lighthouse lens, and brought his family back to London for a fresh start. Jeremiah soon became friends with a young boy, Matthew, whose father was an ancient seer from that same town. Matthew’s adopted father, Callum helped Thomas Black fight back the Devil’s minions and save what was left of their town, thwarting the Devil’s plan. The plan was to eradicate any trace dating back to Roanoke, where he purposely wiped out everyone, save for a few needed for his bidding. The Devil succeeded in destroying all the family ties, except for the Blacks, and for um’s family line. Jeremiah soon succumbed to the Devil’s evil design and killed his own son, permanently ending the Black line to Roanoke.

Jeremiah’s mind sputtered with a happy thought. He and Matthew raced against the sun’s demise along the cobblestone streets of Whitechapel. The two boys were tight like brothers, never backing down from any challenge. Matthew was trained to be a seer, just like Callum, his veins surged with majestic energy. Matthew’s real family was brutally slain during the Devil’s wrath in Ocracoke, and his uncle, Inspector Matthias Connors, aided Thomas and Callum in their fight. After Matthias died, Callum took in the boy and trained him. A searing teardrop stung Jeremiah’s hellish skin.

His hand reached for the door to the next car. He pressed his face against the glass. His putrid breath fogged up the window. Charlie, where the fuck are you, you little shit?

Jeremiah entered the car. A man was sitting reading the wrinkled Sunday edition of the New York Times. A quiet man, Jeremiah observed. His hand reached for his person of choice. His dual-blade python knife. He slowly unsheathed it. He walked slowly behind the man’s chair. Excuse me, Jeremiah said.

Yes? The man answered without looking up. His eyes kept reading the paper.

Can you check the obituary section, for an Arlington Bucci? Jeremiah brought the blade inches from the man’s hefty neck.

I guess so, he said. His fingers flipped to the page. Wait, a minute, that’s my name.

Jeremiah plunged the knife into the man’s neck. The bones broke on impact. Arlington’s head snapped forward. His mouth opened slightly, blood staining the obituary page. It looks like there’s going to have to be a paragraph for you tomorrow. He smiled. His hand withdrew the knife and wiped it on the seat. His eyes tracked the flight of a shadow on the upper wall. Charlie.

Jeremiah felt the pop of two small feet upend his entire frame. His chin jolted backward. He stumbled and lost his balance. The knife skittered out of his hand and underneath a row of chairs. Motherfucker, he growled. He rubbed his chin and attempted to stand back up. His hand went up in defense. Wait, he urged.

Charlie sent another shockwave at the monster before him.

Jeremiah tumbled head over heels and landed squarely on his back on the far end of the car.

The moment of silence was disturbing. Jeremiah huffed hard. Your father had it coming. The Devil called for him to come home.

Charlie remained silent. A dead, eerie silence.

Your old man, he had this problem with gambling and owed a lot to several bad people, Jeremiah said. He inched his way up the wall and felt for the fire extinguisher. In order to settle these debts, your father had to pay the price. And, well, once we found out you were his son, a direct bloodline to Callum LeBeau.

Charlie remained silent. He stood firm.

`Jeremiah grabbed the dull, red extinguisher and sprayed the room.

Charlie lost sight of Jeremiah in the dense white cloud.

Let’s see how your senses are, Jeremiah’s voice echoed in the room. His fingers found his knife. Are they as good as advertised? Callum was pretty strong, as was Matthew. Jeremiah made his move. I don’t how you managed to elude my capture for this long. Your entire family bloodline ends on this train. Jeremiah plunged the knife into the shadow ahead. He heaved forward with the relentless rage of an immortal assassin.

The white cloud soon filtered away.

Jeremiah stared down at Charlie.

A stream of blood ran down Charlie’s body.

Jeremiah felt something was wrong. His eyes watched as Charlie opened his hands, releasing the knife. A cut slashed across his palms, but nothing more. No fatal blow. Charlie used his unique powers to stall Jeremiah’s attack.

Hissing, Jeremiah stepped back. Man, I’ve never killed a kid before, but you are coming this close. He squeezed his fingers together.

Charlie remained silent. He raised his hands in front of him. His small stature, merely four feet five inches, dwarfed compared to Jeremiah. Charlie was only eight. His round eyes blinked a tear for his father. His mouth opened wide.

Jeremiah watched, stunned. What are you doing?

Charlie’s mouth expanded wide. His young lungs took a solid, deep breath in.

And, then released.

The shockwave hit Jeremiah hard. He felt his body crack from the pressurized attack. Jeremiah lifted from the floor. Charlie waved his hands left, then right. Jeremiah bounced from wall to wall, cracking the windows with each impact. The small holes began to hiss air.

Jeremiah landed with a crash on the rows of seats. His back bent awkwardly and snapped in several places.

Charlie walked backward to the door that adjoined the next car. His mouth opened once more. A brutal sound wave unleashed on the train. Jeremiah felt his eardrums erupt, black blood oozing from the ruptured ear canals.

The windows crackled. The train sped faster up the mountain. The tracks were narrowing and it was a dangerous path around the curve of the mountain.

Charlie entered the next car. His eyes watched Jeremiah stand up. A demon bleeding and beaten.

The window gave way. One by one. The air sucked hard into the train’s car.

Jeremiah was pulled to the window. You won’t survive this fight! I’ll still come for you!

Charlie’s mind rattled the locking mechanism connecting the train cars. He lifted it with his mind and sent Jeremiah’s car careening off the track.

The several empty cars behind Jeremiah swayed and buckled. The curve of the track proved to be too much for the wayward cars.

Jeremiah stared at Charlie with an ominous red glare one final time before his car careened off the mountain and exploded below.

Hello, Operator

The needle of the record dragged across the decades-old Meatloaf album. The lyrics for ‘Bat out of Hell’ were distorted and scratchy. Her pale-skinned head bounced off the end table that served as the base of the record player. The impact forced the needle to pop off its majestic path, and hampered the song to become a denigrating version of a wonderful classic.

Her body refused to quiet to the night. A handful of red hair clutched inside his angry hands. The struggle was fierce and strong, blood splattered on the end table’s oak legs, and even spurted up against the record player. A few droplets traveling around the wobbly record. Both endured intense injuries and opened cuts to their skin.

His calm hand released her by the throat. A reddened mess, her pale skin sketched in his fury. He stood straight up. His hands were tucked inside protective gloves, nary a fingerprint on anything. God knows, he wanted to caress that record so fucking bad. To feel underneath his fingers, a quiet spin of yesteryear, inhalation of iconic medleys. It was a moot point now. Her blood, his blood, it had all stained that image of his.

His hands were sweaty inside those damn gloves. There was a slight tear up by the wrist where she clawed and clawed. Fuck, she clawed. An overdue appointment at the local nail salon was needed, well, not anymore. He chuckled. Just a trip to the morgue. Served her right.

His teeth clenched one of the gloves and snapped them off. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator with the other protective glove. He unscrewed the Diet Pepsi, and took a hard swig. Fucking people couldn’t get regular Pepsi? Or Coke?

The soda burned his throat, his nostrils flared