Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre (10 page)

onald finds himself bursting through the door of an aban
-
doned building. Panting heavily, he peeks around every
corner, investigating his hiding place.

Walking through the trash and rubble, Donald begins to feel
a false sense of security. He takes another complete gaze at the
room, then sits on a half-burned, piss-ridden mattress.

His heart calms to a steady rhythm, his pulse slows, and his
perspiration subsides. Laying his head back on the wretched bed,
he ignores the piercing smell of urine; he has slept in far worse
conditions.

As he drifts into a quiet sleep, he doesn’t notice the witchy
green glow beginning to creep between the cracks of the walls and
ceiling. The bright green shadow cuts softly through the quiet, still
air as Donald lies quietly. The shadings of green glow throughout
the room create a tropical ambiance. Small spheres of soft, yellow,
phosphorescent light bounce around the room, like mystical
globes running on random energy.

A tiny chirping noise resonates from the foot of the mattress.
Donald’s exhausted senses ignore the tiny noise as well as the now
illuminated surroundings. The chirping sound multiplies, originating from different sources throughout the room.

A silent, glowing mist moves fast to cover the ears of the unsuspecting man in an attempt to deaden his hearing.
The protruding metal springs of Donald’s mattress begin to
take on an organic form. The springs twist, warp, and fuse into
tiny little shapes, as if they’ve suddenly come to life. Then they
begin to swarm together, forming a throng of worms. The intertwining swarm causes a rippling wave within the mattress. The
mattress throbs, like something is alive inside it. The mattress
pulsates with a beating pulse. Donald shrugs his shoulders and
yawns, shifting onto his side, his sleep only slightly disturbed by
the change in cushion.
The swollen worms now reach out for Donald. They start to
squirm sensually around Donald’s head and throat. They wriggle
to smother him, like a living blanket. One worm finds itself curi-
ously piercing Donald’s skin just above his throat. A small river of
crimson trickles down the sides of Donald’s neck, forming a small
pool of blood. Other worms smell this exotic element, so they
quiver relentlessly toward the red river, indulging themselves.
From the once quiet chirping, a swarm of locusts develops.
They rise up from beneath Donald’s bed and collect in a gigantic
mass, until the locusts cover the floor, vibrating with energy. The
room hums with their sound. Slithering all over each other like
dancers on a crowded dance floor, they swirl in passionate ecstasy.
Donald’s eyes suddenly open with an emotionless glare. His
pupils are as black as soot, his face a pale, soft white, his mouth
gapes wide in an effort to scream, but he can only mutter a slight
cough. His throat is clogged with thick vomit. Beads of sweat
form on his cheeks, creating an eerie spectacle.
Donald quivers. His body trembles and convulses like an epi-
leptic on the mattress. Suddenly a paralyzing poison that has a
swift effect infiltrates his body. The only movement he can now
muster is in his little finger. He wags it, uncontrollably, as if he’s
become a puppet to something he can’t see.
This slight movement draws the sudden attention of the
locusts. They swarm to the bed, crawl all over Donald, and swiftly
attack, devouring flesh.
Donald’s mouth gapes wide, but no sound comes out. Vomit
pours from his mouth. His tongue is swollen, filled with poison-
ous serum. Then the worms dig deeply into Donald’s body, burrowing as they please. Their bodies swell as they penetrate their
beefy meal.
Death comes slowly as his heart still pounds. Donald hears
his heart reverberating against his chest. With one lonely tear, his
soul cries for the God whose love he has always squandered. His
chapped lips attempt to form words, but they only flutter before
becoming deadly still.
The poison numbs the slicing pain of Donald’s pierced flesh.
Death is finally here. His eyes roll back from their paused position;
his blackened pupils slowly drift. A quiescent feeling of warmth
overcomes his body, which is riddled with gaping wounds. One
bloody tear finds its way, sliding down his pale skin, between the
throng of worms.
Traveling throughout the lifeless carcass, these evil messengers
find themselves a temporary home away from hell.
The devilish green gently evaporates; its probing light slowly
withdraws. The room becomes dreary and dim, returning to its
original form. The room is deathly quiet.
When the soft phosphorescent lights are gone, the hoard of
dangerous insects disappears. Nothing is left but tainted flesh and
bones.

arah’s mind is now swarming with questions. At first, she’s
convinced her brain and memory are playing tricks on her.
Maybe it’s from all that drinking, she thinks. Maybe I’m

Sarah begins to recall the old feelings she had when she first
found Melissa after Melissa’s release from the hospital. She was
in the alley wearing a bright red shirt, but maybe it wasn’t red--no,
it was definitely red! Melissa did act strange. I mean...just differ-
ent, I can’t even describe how. I know she wouldn’t hurt anyone,
but she did have on those clothes and all that money. She did say
a lady gave it to her. What the hell is goin’ on? Mr. Nicholas said
he knows this Harris lady too. Where did he come from and the
apartment, why did he give it to us? I’ve got to find out more
about him. Donald mentioned he heard a little girl’s voice warning
him. I wonder if it could be the same girl who warned me. Who is
she? Where did she come from?

“Oh, I needed some information on a building on 202 L Avenue, down Ironbound.”
“Public or private?” asks the woman.
“I don’t really know.”
“What are you trying to find out exactly?” she asks.
“I wanted to find out somethin’ about the owner. You see, I live
there, and he hasn’t done any repair work in months, and I’m gettin’ real tired of him.” Sarah hopes her trembling voice does not
give her away.
“Are you sure about 202, down Ironbound?” she asks skepti-
cally.
“Yeah, is somethin’ wrong?” Sarah responds.
“No, it’s just that I don’t remember many places down there. I’ll
go take a look for the owner’s information, just wait here. What’s
the name of the owner?”
“Mr. Nicholas.”
“First name?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” With a doubtful stare, she turns away
to search through her files.
Sarah takes a seat in the ever-so-comfortable municipal chair
and awaits the woman’s return. She doesn’t wait long. The woman
comes out the back, frowning.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but this
is not the place for it. I am too damn tired of--”
“What’s the problem!”
“The problem is, you can’t live in a building that burned up six
months ago and has yet to be reconstructed. Hell, as far as repairs,
the whole damn building needs repairing. It was gutted out shortly
after the fire! Furthermore, the owner died in the fire; he lived
there, Owen Marshall. There is no Nicholas!”
Sarah cups her mouth, her eyes glazing. Turning completely
around, she runs out the double doors. The information terrifies
her and sends chills up her spine. Racing down the crowded
streets, she finds herself two blocks away from the mission at an
old abandoned building where a crowd has gathered. Forced to
stop due to exhaustion, she notices a few people she knows.
“What’s wrong with you?” asks Natalie, another mission volun-
teer. “You look scared. Are you okay?”
Panting, Sarah responds, “Everything is all wrong.”
“Yeah, it’s wrong all right,” Natalie says as she peers over the
crowd.
“What are you talkin’ about?” asks Sarah.
“What somebody did to Silas, Marty, and Donald. One of the
prostitutes found their bodies. She said it was just pieces of them
everywhere. Blood and shit all over, in one of the back rooms. She
went hysterical, and the police had to take her to the hospital.”
Gasping in shock, Sarah’s mind whirls. Her body shivers madly
as the voices and chatter of the murder scene cease, withdrawing
into a solemn calm. Her knees tremble as if she has aged sixty
years in two seconds. Her hands quiver uncontrollably. Her skin
becomes clammy and wet. She perspires with no restraint.
Pure terror in its natural form is the only way to describe the
wearied despair of Sarah’s emotions. With her body feeling sick
and feeble, she cannot speak, hear, or think. She follows her tunneled vision out of the crowd.
The watchful eyes loom above the crowd, watching carefully,
tracing the steps of this dazed woman. They stare menacingly.
They feel their secret may soon be revealed. The child they have
sworn to protect must remain a powerful secret until the time
is right, when darkness shall again inherit the earth. When the
Black Mass becomes as common as Sunday morning Bible study.
When the majestic gates of heaven open, allowing the warlords
of darkness to pillage this sacred domain. The earth will not have
a chance. The sun’s radiant energy will be reduced to a kindling
torchlight, and the freezing temperatures shall give rise to a new
breed of animal, a new breed of man, a new breed of wickedness.

arah walks, feeling a gentle tug on her shirt. Looking over,
she doesn’t recognize the petite old man who looks at her
with a gentle smile.

The watchful eyes shy away, pushed back by a powerful force.
They try to follow, but the kind face and the holy nature of the old
man hinder their powers. Angrily they drift off, unable to follow.

“Are you Sarah?”
Sarah slowly responds, “Yeah.”
“Well, you must come with me, Sarah,” he instructs with a calm,

soothing voice.
“I can’t, I have to help a friend. I think she is in a lot of trou
ble,” Sarah says with a trembling tone.
“More trouble than you could ever imagine. Please come with
me, there is someone who has sent me to find you.”
“Who sent you to find me? What trouble?”
“Please, just follow me. I’ll take you to a place where you will
be safe.”
Sarah doesn’t ask any more questions. She feels naturally safe
with the kind-faced man. He is surrounded by a charming karma
that radiates an overwhelming sense of well-being. Through her
cautious glare, she watches him as he smiles. Thin wire glasses
comfortably complement his pleasant, heavily creased face. He’s
wearing a tweed shirt with old-fashioned black knit pants and
shoes that resemble those at the bowling alley.
Sarah knows she must help her friend, and somehow she knows
that this man is a crucial part of the answers she seeks. A soothing voice swells within her mind and soul, vividly instructing her
subconscious to follow her instinct.
As she walks steadily behind the old man, Sarah’s thoughts
slowly drift back toward the murder scene. Her eyes fill with
tears. She remembers the fear and anxiety in Donald’s voice when
he described the voice he had heard. The memory of his bulging eyes and trembling hands burns a terrifying image into her
memory.
The evening sky slowly descends on the city. The streetlights
begin to surge with energy. Their small amber radiance slowly
develops into a brilliance that dominates the evening’s atmosphere.
Sarah finds herself walking through a large, black gate. She
looks around, noticing the words “Saint Paul’s Cathedral” etched
in stone. Its skin is brown granite, and its eyes are stained glass
images of angels. The structure is magnificent as it rises into the
air, piercing the evening sky. The dark shingle-covered steeples
end with magnificent golden crucifixes at each point. The divine
building is dimly lit and seems undisturbed by the large city that
encompasses it.
The old man, pushing open one of the doors, turns and smiles,
“You are safe now.”
The pews are numerous with a lustrous glaze finish that
reflects in the delicate candle light. The radiance of the multicolored stained glass captivates her. Towering faultless columns
rise up throughout the holy chamber with a sanctified quality. A
sweet lemon aroma fills the room, along with the fragrance of
freshly cut flowers found in carefully arranged baskets around
the alter.
In the front of the sanctuary extending above all other elements, rising far superior to the pulpit, hovers the purest symbol
of Christianity. Sarah’s heart jumps slightly as the man with his
bound arms spread wide and bloody feet stares into her soul; she
feels the strength of His love.
The kind-faced man and Sarah walk on the left side of the pews
toward the front of the Cathedral. Saintly figures guard their path.
Through one door then another, Sarah carefully follows the old
man’s steps.
The two travel down a series of spiral stairs that enter a secret
area of the church, visited by few. The cobwebs cling undisturbed
to the shabby brick wall. The deep brown-varnished wood floor of
the sanctuary is now replaced by an uneven cobblestone ground.
This dungeon-like place is surprisingly well lit. Light bulbs dangling from their sockets loom just above their heads. Large piles
of crumbled brick line the base of the walls. A strong aroma of
ancient mildew floods these narrow corridors, cutting through a
thick humid mist.
The old man gestures for Sarah to stop. She finds herself in
front of an aged wooden door with hinges large and rusty, bolted
into the unstable brick wall. The old man reaches out with his
well-aged hand to unlatch the huge, dusty lock.
Stepping inside, Sarah is almost overcome by the smell of feces
and urine. The old man evidently has been here before; he wastes
no time cupping his nose and mouth before entering.
The chamber is no different from the outside hall; it is also
dungeon-like. Deprived of windows, the room is dim at best, with
a few thick candles creating spots of light. The furniture looks just
the same as the front door--thick and petrified. Large stones make
up the degenerated walls; several dense beams form the makeshift
ceiling. The spiders’ beautiful architectural webs suspend from
everywhere.
“She has been here almost a week now.” The old man speaks
softly as he reaches up to pull a string, igniting a low wattage bulb.
“Who?”
“Her.” Huddled in the corner, a dark figure crouches, hiding
from its mortal enemy. Looking up through her unkempt hair, her
mouth open, a soft humble sound emerges.
“Sarah, is that you?” Jumping up, Jackie rushes toward Sarah.
“I knew you’d come! I knew it!” Her face and hands are shivering.
She grabs Sarah’s hand, then quickly lets it go. “It’s you, it ain’t
them?”
“Jackie, what’s happened to you? You’re burned?” Jackie’s skin,
once smooth and dark, is now scorched with burns. Her bleeding
wounds and peeling scabs are grotesque. The smell of the burned
flesh reeks in the dreary atmosphere of this cavern.
“I need my protection. I saw their world. I know their secrets.
I know their plans. The child can’t be born...it must die! I saw
the beasts, they blew the horns, but they ain’t supposed to be no
beasts, the end is close. Revelations...it’s in there.” Jackie drifts
back into the camouflaging shadows like an injured animal.
“What child? Beasts?”
“Come next door, Sarah, I’ll explain things,” the old man says.
Pulling the switch once more, the room falls victim to deep black
shadows accented by golden halos of carefully placed candles.
The two walk a few steps to another room filled with aged
books and antique furniture. The room is clean and well lit. The
old man removes his wire-framed glasses and extends his hand to
Sarah.
“I didn’t mean to be rude, my name is Alexander Johns. People just call me Father Johns. I’m a priest here, at St. Paul’s. I
didn’t want to talk to you outside, because I didn’t think it would
be safe. It looks like we have a serious problem, Sarah, and your
friend Melissa is in a lot of trouble.” Father Johns walks behind
a wooden antique desk and sits. There are no hinges or screws;
it looks as if the desk has been sculpted by hand. The desk is
crafted with meticulously carved legs that resemble the waves of
an ocean. Sarah’s eyes follow the waves until she decides to speak.
“Somehow, I know that, but I don’t understand what’s goin’
on,” says Sarah.
“Sit down, Sarah, let me start from the beginning. A few nights
ago, I heard a banging on the back doors of the Cathedral. When
I opened the door, Jackie was standing there staring at the sky. I
thought she was in trouble, so I pulled her inside. At first, I didn’t
recognize her, but soon I realized I knew her from the mission.
She continued to stand with her hands held in a tight fist. Her
clothes were torn, her mouth filled with blood. I asked her if she
was okay, but she refused to speak. I began to worry. She continued to bleed from her mouth, so I asked her if she wanted a
doctor. It was then that I heard her voice for the first time. ‘No,
Father, you must protect me. I ain’t leavin’ this place ever.’ Then
she collapsed to the floor. I called for help, and we brought her
downstairs to an empty room. It turned out that she had just bit-
ten her lip and had some deep scratches, like she was attacked by
an animal. We bandaged her up and allowed her to sleep. Later that
evening, one of my assistants called for me; he said I needed to
hear the woman while she talked in her sleep. Of course, I walked
down, wondering what could possibly be so important at five a.m.,
but it turns out my assistant did the right thing. Jackie was screaming, drenched with sweat and tears. She screamed about a place
where she thinks she has been. Asylum of Omen. Have you ever
heard of Asylum of Omen, Sarah?”
“No.”
“Most people haven’t.” Father Johns wipes his face slowly, then
gently strokes his nearly bald head.
“Asylum of Omen is a mystical place that most men of the
cloth would choose to ignore. I fortunately spend a lot of time
indulging myself in these ancient prophecies, finding the stories
intriguing. This is one place that strong documentation exists to
support its existence. Let me read you something.” Father Johns
stands and walks over to the dusty bookshelf. He pulls out a large
volume. Its binding looks as if it will crumble at any instant, its
pages thick and yellow. He sits down, carefully flipping through a
few pages, then reads:
“My love will redeem ye from Asylum, but ecstasy be thine
and joy of the universe. The child of thy bowels ye shall protect.
Thy mother be of divine nature but lost, lost to the perils of sin,
denouncing the light. These are the conditions of my love. I have
a secret glory, the earth shall be thine once more. The lord of sin
shall save your unwanted souls, thy has such power, I am the sorcerer and the exorcist. If thou can protect thy offspring, then ye
shalt be showered with love not shown by other kingdoms. Kiss
my lips, ye shall feel my love. Immorality or iniquity, wrongdoing
or evil, I who am all pleasure loves and desires you.” Father Johns
takes a moment to return the book to the shelf.
“I know this seems kind of strange, but basically what it is saying is, if the lost souls of Asylum of Omen can protect one of
Satan’s children born through a child of God who has lost her
way, they will attain access to hell. Then they will join the angels
of the beast and destroy and plunder the earth into forever darkness.”
“What souls are in the Asylum? What does this have to do with
me and my friend?” asks Sarah.
“Some call them mischiefmakers or evil-doers. It is believed
they are the souls of suicide and souls that are never born. They
are in turmoil. Taking your own life is the ultimate sin, and neither
heaven nor hell will accept these souls. And each time a child is
conceived, it obtains a new soul, and if it is not born, it is said
the soul is lost to Asylum. It seems, according to prophets, the
beast would grow weary of the constant battle between good and
evil. It would then propose a deal to the lost souls of Asylum,
so that they may attain admission into hell. When Jackie tossed
and turned that night, she talked about this prophecy in detail,
facts she couldn’t possibly have known. Most clergymen don’t
even know this domain’s proper name. Well, the next day, Jackie
wandered down here, into our secret passages under the church
where men of God come to study the Word in seclusion. Trying
to protect herself, she stole some candles and a crucifix. Heating
the crucifix, she burned it into her skin all over her body. Those
were the burns you saw. I assume she wanted to assure herself of
God’s protection.
“She told me there was an old man that tried to help. Is that
true?” Father Johns inquires.
“Yeah, Mr. Nicholas, what about him?” asks Sarah.
“He was there, in Asylum. She said she has seen his face; she is
sure it’s the same man. At any time did he ever say his name was
Old Nick?”
“I think so, maybe,” answers Sarah.
“Sarah, another name for Satan is Old Nick,” the priest explains.
Sarah’s eyes grow wide.
“Wait, before you get too upset, I don’t think he was the devil. I
think he was just a servant or protector. You see, the mischiefmak-
ers, according to legend, will play with you, they are liars. They will
tell you who they are without really telling you.”
“But here to protect or serve who?” asks Sarah.
“That’s where your friend Melissa comes in. She’s pregnant; the
baby is not due for a few months. Am I right?”
“She isn’t pregnant, and if she was, how would you know?”
“Jackie. That’s why she was summoned to the Asylum. She was
asked to protect the child. When she refused, she ran and was able
to escape. Do you know who the father might be?”
“No one I can think of. Oh no, not Harry!” Sarah suddenly
remembers.
Father Johns takes a deep breath, preparing himself to deliver
more grim news.
“For he the beast shall be known by many names, each as cold
as the icy tundra of hell,” Father Johns recites from memory. “Are
you sure his name was Harry?” Father Johns pulls out a small
book from one of his desk drawers. Flipping through some pages,
he suddenly stops, then gently nods as if he has just confirmed his
own suspicions. Father Johns then reads, “Oceans of peril shall
surround man, the earth ravaged and robbed by the armies of
Harry.” Father Johns pauses. “Harry is another name sometimes
used to describe the Beast. I cannot be sure if they are one and
the same, or your Harry may be simply a vessel. One of many the
Beast may use. Something is watching her.”
“I knew there was somethin’ different about him, he went
straight for her. Then he disappeared.” Sarah, becoming more
and more teary-eyed with each passing moment, asks, “If they’re
watchin’ Melissa, why do they need Jackie?”
“I don’t know,” the priest ponders.
“I’m sorry. Father, are you sure about all this? I mean, this
seems kinda strange, are you sure she’s pregnant? Are you certain
about all this stuff?” asks Sarah, rubbing her face, then clasping
her hands.
“Unfortunately, I cannot be totally sure, but as I said before,
Jackie recited information unknown to all except an elite few on
this entire planet.” The old man drifts slightly forward, peering
into Sarah’s eyes. “Sarah, I believe this prophecy is coming to pass,
and if I am correct, the fate of all mankind could rest in your
hands.” Sarah stares at the ceiling and gazes around the room.
Eventually she meets the old man’s weary eyes once more.
“What do I have to do?” she asks quietly.
Father Johns stands, then walks around the large desk. Stand-
ing directly in front of Sarah, he places his hand on her head, his
palm covering her forehead. He serenely begins to recite a verse
from the Bible. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only
begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish,
but have everlasting life.”
With a brief moment of silence, they both quietly pray within
themselves. Removing his hand, he walks back to the other side of