Reflections in the Abyss

By Frederick Pangbourne

Eight tales of horror pulled from the deepest depths of the abyssal layers of hell. Stroll through an unreturnable path in "Death's Garden." Come face-to-face with a deadly household visitor in "In the Drain." Confront your demons in "Blood of Heroes." These and other tales await you. You just need to look into the reflections in the abyss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645440918

Frederick Pangbourne

Frederick Pangbourne is a short story and horror author with five anthologies currently out in publication. His stories have been featured in numerous magazines, anthologies, and on podcasts. A former Marine Corps veteran and retired correctional officer, he now resides in Florida where he continues to write and relax.

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Reflections in the Abyss

Frederick Pangbourne

Copyright © 2019 Frederick Pangbourne

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64544-090-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64544-091-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Behold, the Leper Messiah

Blood of Heroes

Death’s Garden

Devil in the Jar

In the Drain

Ool A’Tak

Rituals

The Sorcerer’s Cellar

To my father, for opening my eyes to the world of books.

Behold, the Leper Messiah

The pounding rain relentlessly attacked the windshield, making the simple task of looking out of it nearly impossible, even with the wipers working at their peak speed. The seemingly endless sheets of rain had been coming down for over an hour now and showed no sign of lessening. I was no longer leaned comfortably back in my seat, but leaning forward over the steering wheel, straining to look through the distorted windshield, the hot air from the defrosters blowing in my face and drying my eyes. I had been on the road for a little over two hours, and already I was cursing at everything that was related to this trip. Everything except myself for accepting the invitation.

I had a tendency to be like that in times like this. I’d blame everyone and everything for something going wrong except myself, even if I was the heart of the problem. What could I do? That was just the way I was. Maybe it was my upbringing or something hereditary. Who knows? I never really pondered it for too long.

My sister and her husband were being thrown a surprise anniversary party by my parents, and when I was asked if I’d come, I said yes without a second thought. It was my mother who asked. What could I say? It wasn’t until I hung up the phone that it struck me that I lived in Jersey and they all lived outside of Pittsburgh. That was a five- to six-hour drive for me, and God knows I hated long drives. I also wasn’t too keen on flying either. Call it a phobia, if you will. In either case, I had accepted my mother’s invitation, and after all, it was my sister’s anniversary. I might be selfish, but that would be going too far by not showing up, especially after I gave my word. What is a man if he can’t keep his own word?

This was only my second time traveling to Lisa and Brian’s home, and the route there was fairly direct, but I was beginning to think that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, because the lonely stretch of road I was now on lacked the smooth surface and streetlights of the road I was previously on twenty minutes ago. Again, I cursed everything but my own navigational skills. I knew I should have left earlier in the day, but one thing led to the next and I wasn’t on the road until six thirty. To my misfortune, it had become dark shortly after I crossed over into Pennsylvania, and the unannounced downpour just added to my afflicted journey.

As I juggled the idea of turning around and retracing my steps, I caught a glimpse of flashing taillights up ahead. I wondered if someone else had made the same mistake as I had and pulled over to debate whether they should turn around or continue.

When I came upon the dark-colored Mercedes-Benz, I saw that its hood was propped up and someone was emerging from under it. I slowed to a stop and rolled down the passenger window. A spark of chivalry overrode the initial impulse of driving past the disabled vehicle. It was a rare thing, these sparks of servility.

No sooner was the window down than the face of a blond-haired man appeared in its place. His short hair was flattened and slick from the rain, his bangs clinging to his forehead.

What’s the problem? I asked.

I’m not sure. It just died on me. I’m guessing it’s the alternator? he replied.

I can give you a lift to the next town if you want?

That would be great! he exclaimed. I just have to grab my bag.

I rolled the window back up and unlocked the door as the man disappeared into the back of his car. I never picked up a hitchhiker before or stopped for someone stranded on the side of the road, but leaving someone deserted out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, and in this weather, did not set right with me. Chalk it up to another spark.

The door suddenly opened, and the man was seated next to me in a flash. I watched him as he placed a small black gym bag between his feet and closed the door behind him.

Thanks a lot, he said, running his fingers through his hair. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.

No problem. I have to turn around, though. I wound up on this road accidentally. I hope you don’t mind?

Well, to be honest with you, that is a problem, he replied as he adjusted the collar of his worn denim jacket.

How’s that? I asked, turning toward him.

I’ve got to stay on this road, he said as he reached into his jacket and produced a handgun, which means so do you.

I froze. I’d never seen a real handgun before, so I couldn’t tell if it was real or not, and I wasn’t going to find out.

Listen, just take the car. I won’t give you any trouble or report anything. I promise, I pleaded.

The man smiled, his white teeth shining as he spoke. I’m not a thief, and I don’t want your car. I just need you to drive me somewhere.

I looked down at the gun, then back at him. Where?

I’m looking for someone, and I believe that they’re staying at a small Amish town about five miles down the road. All you have to do is drive me there.

That’s it? I asked, making sure I had heard him correctly.

That’s it. I’ll take it from there, he said, still smiling.

What was this guy? A hit man? If he was, he didn’t look like one, but then again, what was a hit man supposed to look like? He couldn’t have been much older than myself, and I was twenty-nine. I eyed him up for a second longer, then put the car into gear. What choice did I have at this point?

What’s your name? he asked as he adjusted himself to get more comfortable.

Shawn, I answered.

Listen, Shawn, if it’ll make you feel any better, I’m not going to kill you. That’s the last thing I want to do, believe me.

Then why are you pointing that gun at me?

Fear. It’s to put fear into you so that you do what I ask. If I weren’t holding this gun to you, you’d be long gone by now, right?

Either that or I’d be kicking your ass, I shot back, trying to mask the fearfulness inside me.

He laughed at my comment. That’s pretty funny, Shawn. I think you’re going to work out just fine.

I almost asked him what he meant by that but decided that I probably wouldn’t like the answer, so I remained silent. He kept the gun on me as we drove. He was absolutely right about fear: it was the only thing that kept me in check. For all that I knew, this guy might be some escaped convict who was in for murder. If he was, he didn’t show it. He was as calm and relaxed about this as I was worried and tense. The only thing that I could do was take him to this town and hope he was a man of his word, for what was a man if he didn’t keep his own word?

We rode in silence for about fifteen minutes before he spoke again.

Where were you headed?

Excuse me?

Before you ended up on this road, where were you going?

To a friend’s. He lives in Pittsburgh, I lied. I wasn’t about to divulge my personal life to this guy.

Really? I’ve never been there myself.

You’re not missing anything.

I believe this is the place, he said, pointing at the windshield.

In the distance, faint lights began to appear. The lights were those of the Amish farmhouses. There were perhaps a dozen of these houses, all separated by acres of farmland.

Where am I dropping you off? I asked as we drew near.

The first house you come across is as good as any.

The urge to ask him what his business was in this desolate town was overwhelming. What would someone like him possibly want in an Amish town? Who could he possibly be looking for? Every time I was about to ask him, I thought of an old Mafia saying: Silence is never a mistake.

The first house was a large white one with a picket fence surrounding its front yard. Oil lamps were burning in the two of the first-floor windows.

I pulled up next to the gate in the fence. By this time, the rain was finally beginning to taper off to a hard drizzle.

Is this good? I asked, hoping this stranger was a man of his word.

It’s a start, he replied as he reached down with his free hand and unzipped the gym bag at his feet, the gun still pointed in my direction. I heard metal clanking as he fished around in the bag.

Shawn, I need you to do me one more favor, if you would? he asked as he pulled something shiny from the bag.

What’s that? I said as I tried to make out what he was holding.

I need you to sit tight for me until I return, he replied as he began to clamp a set of handcuffs onto my wrist and the steering wheel.

What are you doing? I asked nervously. You said all I had to do was drop you off. That’s what you said!

That I did. But what if this isn’t the right house? If we’re lucky, it will be.

He turned the car off and pulled my car keys from the ignition. I was hoping he would leave them in the car, but he placed them in the breast pocket of his jacket. He then slipped the handgun into the waistband of his jeans and began to pull magazine clips from the bag.

I don’t know what you’re up to, and I really don’t care. All I want to do is get out of here. Please just take the car. I’ll walk back. Please? I could no longer hide the mounting fear in my voice.

Relax, Shawn, he said, smiling as he stuffed the clips in his jacket. I would let you go, but I don’t know how to drive. If he’s here, we’ll be out of here soon.

"We? What do you mean we? And what do you mean you don’t know how to drive? I saw you."

You saw me at the car, not driving it. The last person I had escorting me fled on foot when I tried to get them to bring me up here. That’s why I had to pull the gun on you. I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.

What’s going on? I more pleaded than asked.

He was smiling again. You’ve got to learn to relax. I’ll be back in a minute.

Before I could say another word, he was out of the car and walking up to the house. I watched profoundly as he made his way up the front porch and, in one swift movement, kicked the front door open. He then drew his weapon and rushed inside. No sooner had he dashed in than I began pulling at the handcuffs, hoping against hope that he hadn’t secured them properly, but he had. What the hell was going on? I had heard and read about people picking up strangers and then the person turning out to be some nutcase, but what were the chances of me falling into this hapless category? I cursed my sister’s anniversary, the foul weather, and especially those damn sparks of mine.

I was still fumbling with the cuffs when I heard the first shot. I jerked my head up in time to see one of the windows light up as the next shot was fired. Before I could grasp the idea that this stranger was shooting up the house, he appeared in the doorway, holding an elderly man by the back of his neck, the gun shoved in his face. He forcefully led the old man down the steps, yelling at him the whole way. The old man was shrugging and shaking his head as he was led. I couldn’t make out what was being said, so I temporarily forgot my fear for the time being and rolled the driver’s side window down. It was pathetic that I would rather hear what was going on than try to escape, but like I said, that’s the way I occasionally am in moments like this.

The stranger stood in the front lawn, still shaking and yelling at the old man, when an elderly woman in a long black dress, the kind Amish women tend to wear, ran onto the porch, screaming in some language that definitely wasn’t English. German maybe? The stranger’s response was putting a bullet in the woman’s head. She crumbled in the doorway like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

I couldn’t conceive what I was witnessing.

The old man practically collapsed to the ground, sobbing. The stranger, showing no signs of remorse, pulled the man to his feet and began shouting in what sounded like the same language. He then commenced to dragging the man around the side of the house. I could still hear the stranger yelling even though he was out of sight.

When the shouts faded, my curiosity reaped an idea that perhaps this guy was a cop or some type of government agent. That would explain a considerable amount to what was going on, but why would he kill in cold blood a woman who was obviously no threat? Then again, maybe he was an escaped murderer, or perhaps it had to do with drugs? The endless possibilities were starting to pile up. Suddenly, I realized that this was not the time to be playing guess the stranger’s occupation but to find an avenue of escape. I then remembered the black gym bag that he left behind.

Using my unsecured arm, which unfortunately was my left, I tried reaching across myself to grab the bag’s straps. The effort was futile. I then proceeded to move my leg over in an attempt to hook one of the bag’s straps. That was when I heard the gunshot. My guess was that the old man was no longer among the living and that my passenger was returning to the car. If I was going to do anything, it had to be now. It was dark in the car, and I couldn’t fully see the bag; I could only feel it with my foot. It was the best I could do.

I threw a quick glance toward the house. There was no sign of him returning yet, and this was good, because I felt my foot slide into one of the straps. As I moved the bag over to the driver’s side, I wondered if there were any more guns in the bag. I questioned if I would be able to shoot this man if I had to.

Suddenly, the passenger door was flung open and the man was leaning in, with the gun now in my face.

Nice try, Shawn. I can’t blame you, though. I would have tried the same thing.

The man’s face was speckled with blood, and he was still smiling. He climbed in and pulled the bag from my foot.

Well, this wasn’t the house. Let’s try the next one, he said casually as he closed the door.

Are you fucking crazy? I shouted. Are you some kind of psychopath? What the hell is going on?

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so let’s move on to the next house, please? He ejected the clip from the gun and checked it before slapping it back in.

I’m not fucking moving! I protested.

Oh yeah? I’m sorry. Here, he said, pulling the keys from his pocket and sliding them into the ignition.

I don’t believe this. I was beginning to feel lightheaded and rested my head against the steering wheel.

Shawn, if we don’t find him tonight, we’re screwed. We’re all screwed.

I felt drained and thought about the comfort of my bed back in Jersey.

When we find him, you’ll understand. I promise, he continued.

Find who? I inquired wearily.

You’ll see in due time. Now, let’s get moving.

And if I don’t want to? I asked, attempting to call his bluff.

Then I’ll have to go back on my word and kill you. You wouldn’t want me to go back on my word, would you? Because push comes to shove, Shawn, I will kill you without the least bit of hesitation if I felt you were going to jeopardize this vital undertaking.

The way he said that sent a shiver through me. There was no doubt in my mind that he was speaking the truth. No doubt. It made me sit up.

What? I asked, making sure I heard him correctly.

What’s a man if he can’t keep his own word? he replied with a sly grin. Now, let’s get going, okay?

Without a word, I started the car and proceeded to the next house. Each house we went to was as same as the first. He would nonchalantly walk up to the door, kick it in, and start shooting. He shot them all: men, women, and even the children. No matter how much they begged and pleaded in that foreign language, he still shot them. From what I could speculate, he was questioning these simple, hardworking people and wasn’t accepting I don’t know for an answer. It was only obvious that he was looking for this person in question. Maybe he was some type of bounty hunter and these Amish folks were hiding a fugitive. Who knows? But that still wouldn’t constitute killing people.