The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror (7 page)

by Joseph Vargo and Joseph Iorillo

E
lizabeth roused from a numb state of unconsciousness to find herself caught in a living nightmare. Her vision was the first of her senses to return. She was in a dark chamber, dimly illuminated by candlelight. The rough stone walls suggested a basement or a prison cell. Her body ached from head to foot and she could not move her limbs. Panic seized her as she realized that she was strapped to a cold steel chair that was bolted to the center of the concrete floor. Her wrists were handcuffed to the rusty metal arms of the chair by antique manacles. A leather muzzle was strapped over the lower half of her face, making breathing nearly impossible. Her stunned eyes registered a red circle painted on the floor surrounding her chair, with five large candles set at intervals around the perimeter.
     She began gasping and weeping as the sheer horror of her situation became apparent. She was not dreaming. She was horribly awake, and she was going to die here violently.
     The last thing she remembered was walking to her car through the parking garage at her accounting firm. She recalled fumbling around in her purse for her car keys but her mind was a blank after that. Her aching head and blurred vision told her that she must have been drugged and abducted. Now she was completely at the mercy of her captor, for what ungodly purpose her mind dared not imagine.
     From somewhere in the darkness behind her came the sharp squeal of rusted hinges, alerting her that someone was entering the room. The door slammed shut, followed by the sound of a heavy metal latch being thrown. Elizabeth began trembling and her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to scream but terror kept her voiceless.
     After a long silence, she heard a deep, eerily calm male voice behind her. "The Lord created the earthly realm for his children and bestowed the gift of free will upon them. While the devoted worship the Lord, others falter in their faith, led astray by temptations. But the path we follow must ultimately be one of our own choosing. For Judgment Day shall come, and when we stand before the Lord, we must stand alone."
     A long shadow fell across the flickering candles as the man stepped forward and stood before Elizabeth. He wore a black robe with a hood that left his face cloaked in darkness. He spoke again, this time in a whisper that sent a chill through her body. "Fear not, child, for I have come to set you free."
     Elizabeth tried to scream but all she could muster was a ragged, hoarse sob. "Why are you doing this to me?" she wailed.
     "You were not chosen by random, nor were you chosen by me. The Lord moves in mysterious ways and I am but his humble and ever-faithful servant. My duty is to cleanse your soul of the twisted entity that holds you in its thrall."
     The hooded figure turned and stepped deeper into the darkness. There was the rattling of metal upon metal and the squeaking of old wooden casters as he wheeled forth what seemed to be a small, antique surgery table upon which rested several ominous devices and ornate daggers. Elizabeth's trembling dissolved into a wild thrashing as her horrified eyes stared at the gleaming objects that this monster intended to use on her.
     "In the thirteenth century," the shadowy figure explained, "the Church began a painful but necessary cleansing of the heresies and abominations that have befallen mankind and forced the children of God off the path of righteousness and into the shadow cast by the Father of Lies. Unclean beliefs, erroneous teachings, witchcraft, and even bodily possession by the fallen angels—all of these crimes were given to us, the Inquisitors, to punish and to cleanse, in order to grant deliverance to the weak souls that had strayed from the light."
     He picked up a metal and leather device that resembled a horse's bridle. Tiny, almost imperceptible needle tips protruded from the rusty mouthpiece, and a small winch resided on the front of the mechanism. "This was often referred to as the Confessor. Once it is affixed around your head and the bit is forced in your mouth, a mere turn of the crank will send forth a dozen needles into your gums." He demonstrated by turning the winch, and the tiny steel pinpricks blossomed forth into inch-long spikes.
     "Please," she begged, "just let me go. I'll do anything you want."
     "Throughout the years certain improvements have been made to heighten the effectiveness of our tools." The hooded figure replaced the bridle on the table and picked up a heavy iron device with four metal rings and levers. An indentation in the shape of a hand was molded into its metal base. "The Mano de Verdad," he said, holding the device up so Elizabeth could see it. "The Hand of Truth. As each lever is thrown, a steel ring is pulled downward into the base, forcing pressure onto the finger, breaking the bone backward against the top knuckle. I assure you, the pain is beyond anything your mind can imagine."
     "You're a monster!" Elizabeth shrieked, struggling against her restraints to no avail.
     "On the contrary," the hooded figure replied, with something akin to kindness. "I do not relish inflicting pain, but in cases such as yours it is a necessity. I work on behalf of a Godly agent who has been sanctioned by the Church to cleanse human souls of the evil spirits that contaminate them. Her dedication is fierce and unswerving, and her methods may seem cruel, but we have found that pain is the surest way to drive out an invading entity, thus purging the host. Physical torment is often too much for these spirits to bear, for they experience every sensation that your body feels. While you will not perish, the pain will bring you to the brink of death, but only in order to cleanse you of the cowardly spirit that now hides behind your innocent soul."
     He stepped toward Elizabeth and slid the base of the iron device beneath her right palm, avoiding any direct contact between her hand and his own. Her manacles made it impossible for her to resist as he clamped her fingers into the steel rings, tightening them just below her fingernails.
     "No, please... no!" Elizabeth's voice cracked as she pleaded, but her captor persisted in his work, fastening the Hand of Truth to the chair's arm with a leather strap.
     As he finished his work, the man took notice of a silver medallion that hung from a thin chain around Elizabeth's neck. Brushing a finger against the engraved image of a Catholic saint, he studied the familiar icon intently.
     "Saint Christopher, the protector," he said, "This evidence of your faith does you credit, my child. Saint Christopher will keep you strong through this ordeal."
     Elizabeth desperately tried to reason with the madman. "If I were possessed by a demon, like you say I am, would I be able to wear this—a blessed medallion?"
     The inquisitor paused for a moment and turned away, as if contemplating the logic of her argument. Then he said "During my years of service to the Church, I have borne witness to many things that defy earthly explanation. I do not question such matters, for I know full well that the Father of Lies uses such deceits in his unending attempt to divert us from the righteous path. The loathsome beast that lurks inside you has concealed itself well. But fear not, my child, with proper persistence, this unholy entity can be driven out and destroyed." He turned back toward her, resting his fingers on the steel levers of the Hand of Truth and said "Shall we begin?"
     "Please don't do this," she begged, "I haven't done anything wrong. I don't deserve to die like this."
     "It is neither my desire nor my instruction to kill you," the hooded figure said. He selected a long, ornate dagger from the table, extending his arm until the tip of the blade pressed against her sternum through her blouse. The point drew a solitary drop of blood and Elizabeth cried out. "But, sadly, death does sometimes occur during these sessions because of the weakness of human flesh and the human will. This dagger, however, will bind your blighted spirit to this girl's body, wretched demon." He gestured to a series of other daggers, each of which was engraved with mystic sigils and Latin prayers. "Each of these sacred blades has a specific designation and must be inserted in the proper sequence, penetrating the eyes, the base of the spine and finally the heart. These blessed tools will destroy you, demon, purifying the girl's soul before she expires."
     Elizabeth wept and screamed, "There's no demon, you sick bastard! You're going to murder me!"
     "Your pleas will do you no good, demon," the man replied tiredly. "I've heard them all before. I know exactly what you are and nothing you say or do can convince me otherwise."
     "You've done this before? You're sick," she sobbed. "You're just a sick, twisted psycho who gets off on torturing his victims! Take a look in the mirror. You're the demon!"
     "No, my poor child, I am a humble inquisitor, acting on behalf of your eternal soul." He took hold of the lever beside Elizabeth's index finger and, without warning, cranked the handle toward her. The mechanism squealed as the steel ring crushed down upon the bone, breaking her fingertip backward with a sharp crackle.
     Elizabeth let loose a sickening wail, completely exhausting the air in her lungs. Undeterred by the girl's shrieks of agony, the inquisitor took hold of the next lever.
     "No! No!" she screamed. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
     Ignoring her pleas, the man plunged the handle downward, cracking the top knuckle of her middle finger against the joint with a force so violent that it caused the fingernail to tear away from the raw flesh.
     Elizabeth's screams of agony reached a horrific crescendo of ear-splitting cries.
     Taking a step back, the tormentor thrust the dagger in front of him and shouted "Hear me demon, and believe me when I say that I have no misgivings about inflicting unbearable suffering and torment upon your mortal host! I will sacrifice this child, if need be, in order to save her eternal soul!"
     The girl's shrieks diminished to gasping sobs. She hung her head and wept, nearly passing out from the excruciating pain.
     The inquisitor leaned in close to her, lifting her muzzled chin with his dagger and looked deep into her eyes. "There are six more fingers to go," he said solemnly. "Trust me when I tell you that your thumbs will cause a whole new level of pain. Then we will move on to your toes."
     "Kill me," Elizabeth whispered, "please... just kill me." Tears streaked down her cheeks, and a single teardrop fell from her chin, landing on the hand of her tormentor.
     The man stiffened, staring down at the droplet on his weathered skin. "No," he whispered. "No." The blessed dagger trembled in his hand, searing the flesh of his palm before it fumbled to the ground, where it spun briefly, its blade gleaming in the candlelight, before coming to rest, the tip pointing accusingly at him.
     It was as though he had been jolted by lightning, and every nerve in his body felt as if it were set ablaze. One moment he had been grimly set about his work, thinking of his years of service to Sister Helena—Sister Salvation, as he sometimes thought of her—and the next moment his entire being felt as if it had been bathed in a white-hot fire. It lasted but an instant, and after the initial shock he stood there breathing heavily, a strange calmness pervading his being. There was something wrong inside of him, he could feel it, but his mind seemed unable to protest or investigate the matter further. It was as though a shadow had fallen across his soul and that shadow was now directing his actions. Without being aware of it, he removed the hood that masked his weathered, bearded face. His voice, curiously flat and emotionless, seemed to be coming from far away as he gazed upon the girl in the chair.
     "Goodbye, my dear. It's a pity that we didn't have more time together." He moved to the entrance and pulled open the heavy door.
     "Don't leave me here," the girl sobbed, "Please!"
     Paying no heed to her desperate cries, he slammed the door shut behind him and threw the bolt, abandoning Elizabeth in the dark chamber.
It was now time to report back to Sister Helena. The mere thought of dealing with her made his face twitch with sinister glee. The strange force within him seemed to purr with a ferocious hunger, like a vicious panther sensing the proximity of its prey.
     At the cathedral, the vespers service was coming to its conclusion as the sun set, its dying light setting ablaze the stained glass windows in a fury of color. Ignoring the mournful, melodic chanting of the brothers, the man strode across the grounds to the rectory. He descended into the bowels of the church, his boots echoing hollowly on the stone steps.
     In Sister Helena's chamber, he saw her silhouetted against the window as she stared out into the churchyard. "You have been gone quite a while," she said softly.
     He said nothing.
     She turned and studied his face. Her eyebrows raised slightly. "Usually you bow to me in respect, Mr. Ambrose."
     He bowed slowly, not taking his eyes off the nun, a slight smile affixed to his thin lips.
     "The girl is now freed from her bondage to the dark forces," he said.
     "You have served me well throughout the years, Mr. Ambrose. But in this case your work seems to have become… disordered."
     The inquisitor's eyes narrowed.
     From the pocket of her habit, Sister Helena withdrew the intricately detailed dagger Mr. Ambrose had left near the girl. The sight of the ancient weapon made him slightly recoil as if he were standing too close to a fire.
     "You left your tools at the scene," she said. She held the blessed dagger out for him to take.
     He could not bring himself to take the hilt of the weapon. His hand trembled and his breathing became ragged.
     "Surely you wish to reclaim the sanctified tools of your trade, Mr. Ambrose." She scrutinized his face, her gaze steady and unreadable. "Unless something is preventing you."
     Before he could react, she drove the dagger deep into his sternum with one swift plunge. He gasped in surprise, unable to scream. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees.
     "This holy dagger has secured the demon within you," Sister Helena said. One by one she removed the other daggers from her robe. "The others shall purify you, Mr. Ambrose, and extinguish the spirit of evil that now holds you in its thrall."
     "Our sacred duties have not been easy, but you performed them with exemplary precision. You were the perfect man for the job, Mr. Ambrose. Heartless, and ruthlessly cold—a true relic of the medieval age." She lifted the next dagger high above her head as the inquisitor knelt before her. "I hope you can find solace in the fact that your final sacrifice has set an innocent soul free."