An End to the Horror

It was almost midnight by the time I managed to return to Mythic Ranch. I came back with both more than I expected and nothing I thought I would return with. You’d expect that confronting a monster would require something like a gun, but it turns out those are actually pretty much the worst for the purpose. While there are certainly monsters of a more material nature, like serial killers, who can be safely dispatched with a good twelve-gauge, there are many with deep ties to the unseen world. They are less monsters, in the classical sense, than they are a sort of flesh-puppet for the many demons and devils who were cast out of Heaven. They require somewhat different means to dispatch: two swords, one of spirit to sever the puppet’s connection to the unseen world and one physical to dispatch the puppet.

Looking back, I don’t know why the old antique dealer decided to send me. I was still just a kid, but at least he gave me a ride. On the way, he told me what the pale man really was, and why it opened its chest the way that it did. First, it played on fear, trying to get you to look at it. Then, it convinced you to approach it. The antiquarian told me that it was a part of a process it used to get someone to accept what it offered without words. It was lucky that my uncle had interrupted because the next steps drew a victim through oppression and possession. The only thing he really told me that gave a clue why he was sending me came as we were turning onto the long driveway of Mythic Ranch. “Too many Protestants have turned to base materialism,” he sighed. “They look at things like ghosts and demons like something out of that cartoon with the silly dog.”

“Scooby Doo,” I asked.

The antiquarian shrugged. “It doesn’t matter when you get down to it,” he grumbled. “All that matters is that the writers want you to believe that there are no ghosts or demons or devils. It’s always just a man in a mask.”

“Cartoons don’t teach anything, unless you think a coyote can’t catch a bird now and then.”

The antiquarian gave me a hard look that made me want to become part of my chair. “Storytellers are always teaching something, boy, even if they don’t think they are,” he said in a tone that somehow made me pay attention. “Stories are never meaningless. Will they sell you on mindless entertainment? A spectacle like a mobile hanging over a baby’s crib? Yes, they absolutely will because the people who run your Hollywood would kill themselves before they tell you the truth about stories. Haven’t you read your bible, boy?”

“Of-of course I have, sir.”

“Then you notice how our Lord uses stories so often. We even have a name for them: parables. The Lord used stories to tell the truth, to teach. These storytellers today use them to more perverse ends. It’s subtle now, but you’ll see it grow ever more obvious as the game continues to play out over the decades. No storyteller who ever lived was just an entertainer, no matter what he might tell himself to make himself sleep better at night. Stories have always been the way in which we pass our culture and values on to our children, and they always will be.”

“I don’t see it that way at all.”

“Of course not. You’re still young. You’re still learning to think.”

“I think very well, thank you very much! I get nothing but A’s in math and science.”

The antiquarian chuckled as he stopped in front of the house. “If only that were all there was to thinking, perhaps the world would be a happier place,” he noted. “No matter. The values a storyteller holds come through in how the heroes and villains of the story behave, lad. If the hero is a brave and honest man while the villain is a cowardly liar, don’t you think that says something?”

I thought about that for a long moment.

“You may think they are nothing but shows and entertainment, but what they really are is subtle moves to influence your thinking.”

I grimaced.

The antiquarian chuckled. “Think of the dog,” he continued. “There are no ghosts, no demons, no devils, and certainly no appeals to Almighty God for his divine aid facing them.”

Piece by piece, what the old man was saying began falling into place. I started thinking of every movie and television show I’d watched. I nodded slowly. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he was right. The heroes always behaved one way and the villains another.

“Don’t think this is always a bad thing, lad. Remember that the Lord used stories to teach his disciples. No, it’s only a problem when it’s twisted to evil ends, especially lies.”

“Why am I going alone, though?”

“Alone? In what name were you baptized, boy!?”

“The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, of course!”

“Then you’re never alone. He is always with you, unless you’ve recently committed some crime you haven’t told me about.”

“Of course not!”

“Then, have some faith, boy! Remember the mustard seed.”

I grimaced.

“You don’t remember.”

“No, I remember. It’s the whole faith the size of a mustard seed thing about moving mountains.”

The antiquarian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I won’t be far, either,” he sighed. “You need to understand the truth, lad. The unseen world isn’t about not listening to rock music or playing that silly table game.”

I opened my mouth, but decided against speaking when I looked over at the old man.

The antiquarian gripped his steering wheel. I didn’t think a man of his age could grip it hard enough to turn his knuckles white. After a moment, he took a deep breath. “Jesus Christ have mercy on me, a sinner,” he whispered before turning to me and speaking in a level tone. “Whatever they call that game doesn’t matter anymore than what they call that dog, lad. You must understand how deep this world truly is, even if you fail this time.”

Up until that point, the notion of failure hadn’t really occurred to me. I swallowed hard.

The antiquarian patted my shoulder. “I won’t be far,” he assured me.

I nodded.

The antiquarian motioned to my door. “The night’s wearing on,” he said. “Get it done.”

I nodded, stepped out of the car, and looked up. Somehow, the overcast sky and faint smell of rain seemed appropriate. I wrapped the swordbelt around my waist like the antiquarian had shown me and picked up the slim prayer book from the dashboard. My hands shook at the thought of what I was confronting.

“Faith, boy,” the antiquarian said flatly. “You don’t need to fear even the valley of death with the Lord leading you.”

It was the first actually comforting thing the old man had said in a while. I nodded.

“Go with God, lad.”

I closed the door and started my walk around the house. I was in the backyard before I heard the faint sound of a car door closing. I thought about waiting for the old man, but put the idea aside. I faced the woods and did what I’d often done before a football game and squared my shoulders. I didn’t expect to see Ruth there, but she stood in the middle of the expansive backyard, numbly facing the forest.

I shook my head and jogged toward my little sister. “Ruth,” I called. “You shouldn’t be out here! Go inside!”

Ruth stood stock still, her eyes transfixed on the woodline.

I picked up my pace, and it took me a second to realize what was happening. The tall, pale figure didn’t so much run from the woods as it glided. A chill ran up my spine as something told me that, if it had a single discerning feature on it’s face, it would have its mouth twisted in a triumphant smile. It was a characteristic of monsters like this one. The idea of tormenting a soul was euphoric for them. “Hey,” I shouted. “Azeri-el!”

The pale man stopped abruptly. It stood there for a long moment, looming over my sister. Then, it slowly turned to me.

Now that I understood what I was facing, its will was an open assault. Wild thoughts danced around my mind, and I trembled over the prayer book the antiquarian had given me. I opened the book to the marked page as the tall, pale figure advanced on me slowly, dipping its fingers into its chest. My voice caught as I started to read aloud. It still advanced on me until it stood looming over me. A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye drew my attention, and I saw Ruth collapse into the grass. I swallowed and steadied my voice as I continued reading.

The tall, pale figure halted and took a step back.

I kept reading until it let out a low growl through a mouth that didn’t exist.

Once again, my voice caught in my throat.

The pale man stepped forward, and I stopped reading, staring at it in horror. In a flash, its hand was around my throat, lifting me from the ground.

Then, I heard the antiquarian. He continued exactly where I had left off, as though he had memorized the entire book he’d given me. The pale man screamed and tossed me to the side. I landed on my back, and the wind rushed from my lungs. I lay there coughing as the old antique dealer advanced on the pale man with a crucifix held in his fist, continuing in a voice with the kind of authority I hadn’t heard from any preacher before. The pale man doubled over, cradling its head. It toppled to the ground and thrashed as a scream pierced the night before fading into the distance.

I looked up at the old antiquarian.

The old man looked at me and nodded.

I don’t know how I knew what to do next. The pale figure was struggling to its feet and turning as if to flee into the woods. I drew the sword which the antiquarian had given me and struck its head from its shoulders. Its body toppled over and faded to dust, and only the head remained behind. I stared at it.

I must have had a look on my face because the antiquarian strode over, shaking his head. “There’s always proof for those with the wit to see it,” he told me and motioned to my sister. “We’re hardly done here.”

I nicked a finger sheathing the sword before I jogged over to where Ruth was sitting up.

Ruth looked around and looked at me. “How did I get here,” she asked.

The antiquarian shook his head. “Don’t question it,” he told her.

I handed the prayer book off to the antiquarian before helping Ruth to her feet. “You might want to steady yourself first,” I told her.

Ruth was a bit unsteady at first as I retraced my steps around the house. “It was like it was calling me,” she mumbled. “The last thing I remembered was being in bed at the motel. Where have you been, by the way?”

“It’s a long story.”