The Demonists

  For they, too, knew that the illumination would not last forever, and eventually they would be able to claim her.

  Until then she would do all that she could to keep the glow alive and hold the darkness back, and pray that there was still hope for her.

  That the darkness would not win.

  With those thoughts she felt the pressure of the shadows all around bear down upon her, squeezing the sphere of light, testing its strength.

  And something just beyond the searing influence of her soul’s illumination, something hissed with confidence— Soon.

  Barrett Winfield knew that he was dreaming, but it seemed so very real. He stood upon the rooftop of his old school, looking out over a vast and once thriving city, now reduced to rubble. Teachers with whom he had worked knelt on the rooftop around him. They were filthy, covered in the dirt and dust of destruction, their tears leaving winding trails through the grime on their faces.

  And they all looked to him, begging for his knowledge. “Teach us,” they pleaded. “Show us how to live in this changing world.”

  He wanted to tell them to fend for themselves, but he could not bring himself to do so, even though they had treated him so unfairly.

  The spirit of what he truly was wouldn’t allow him, no matter how badly they had mistreated him. He was a teacher, after all, and now it was his turn to teach them.

  “Look,” he commanded, pointing at the ruins of the city. In the distance, alarms wailed mournfully, mixing with the cries of the injured and terrified. What still remained standing of the many ruined buildings began to vibrate and crumble, falling apart as the ground beneath the city’s center began to crack and swell. As something forced its way up from beneath.

  His fellow teachers were all sobbing, their eyes fixed to the falling structures and the heaving Earth below them.

  “Listen,” he told them, turning his head ever so slightly as a terrible howling filled air. The sound was everything, deafening in its intensity, so loud that it caused the flesh to tingle, the bones to ache. Glorious. The teachers had covered their faces, ducking their heads. “Watch!” he ordered, for this was how they would learn. And even though they were frightened, they did as he commanded. As their Teacher ordered.

  And the world’s new, dark lord pushed up through the deep rock, dirt, and concrete, born to this new time and place. It—he—was a thing to behold. To describe his awesomeness would have been impossible.

  And the Teacher reveled in the sight, while the others were stricken silent, thick tears raining from eyes wide with wonder and terror. “Do you see?” the Teacher asked them. “This is the beginning of the new,” he explained. “The world that you know now will soon be nothing more than a fading memory. This will become real.” The demon-god surged upward, its many mouths open and belching thick clouds of black, oily smoke that stuck to the sky and swallowed the sun. Darkness fell upon them, and the Teacher knew that it was only a matter of time before the entire planet was wrapped in a cloak of shadow.

  The immenseness that was his god continued to spread out over the ruins of the great city, flowing out and beyond, some of its many, many mouths singing the most beautiful of songs, while others vom ited the clinging darkness.

  The Teacher listened to that special song, and heard in its beautiful tune a message only for him. A message that told him that sacrifices would have to be made for this wonder to be true.

  To actually become reality.

  And then Barrett realized that this fantastic moment, this transcendent experience had yet to occur.

  That this was all a dream.

  And his sadness and rage were like a thing alive. He looked at those who had spurned him, cast him out from their tribe, and he hated them more than ever before. One by one he took them, tossing them from the rooftop of the school, down into the enormity of his master, to be swallowed up by his awesomeness.

  To be one with the god.

  There was nothing he wanted more for himself, but he knew that his work was not yet done.

  To see this dream—this beautiful fantasy—come true, he had to do his job. He had to teach. He had to plant the seed.

  And in order for that seed to grow, the soil had to be rich, and moist with the blood of the innocent.

  Barrett Winfield opened his eyes to the new day.

  He lay atop the stained mattress, wrapped in sweat-soaked sheets, and realized that something had happened—that he was no longer the same—that he had been transformed.

  His old self was gone. Only the teacher now remained. The Teacher.

  He smiled. Barrett had been weak, without purpose, but now . . . The Teacher rose from the bed, filled with the drive to continue his holy mission and fulfill his purpose. He stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the filth of his old life, anxious to wash away the last remains of Barrett Winfield, to slough off that skin and reveal the Teacher beneath.

  Walking atop the detritus of years, he made his way to the bathroom. It was as filthy as the rest of the house. He had to pull out dozens of trash bags filled with old clothes before he could climb into the dirt-caked tub. Then he cast off his undergarments, adding them to the piles of dirty clothes that already littered the floor.

  Standing naked and exposed, the Teacher reached for the knobs, turning them, hearing the moans and groans of ancient pipes asleep from lack of use. The center knob turned with a whining shriek, and a blast of icy, rust-colored water vomited forth from the showerhead, gradually turning to warm as he shivered beneath the liquid spray. He stuck his face beneath the gout, to rinse away the last vestiges of Barrett’s appearance, his hands now moving across his dirty body, scrubbing at what remained of Barrett’s skin. He closed his eyes, imagining layers of skin sloughing off from his body, dissolving away and washing thickly down the drain.

  His hands moved over his stomach and chest, but stopped when he felt something that he hadn’t felt before.

  Something that shouldn’t have been there.

  For a moment he felt that sudden, typically human fear.

  Cancer. But he was beyond human thought now. He stroked the odd, fleshy growth just beneath, and in the center of his chest, feeling it move beneath his fingers. Strangely it did not concern him.

  In fact, it excited him, filling him with a sense that it was supposed to be there, that this was a message.

  The Teacher smiled and continued to scrub at the filth that was Barrett Winfield, until only the pristine form of the Teacher remained. Then he dried himself with some towels he’d found wedged beneath boxes of crusted cleaning products and returned to his bedroom to stand before the broken mirror.

  The Teacher admired his naked body, surprised at how different he appeared, and yet so familiar. Moving closer to the mirror, he brought a tentative hand to the discolored growth just beneath his chest and stroked it gently.

  Lovingly.

  And practically burst into tears as he watched it move with life and begin to grow.

  CHAPTER SIX

  John Fogg had been too excited to sleep.

  The flights had been inconsequential, giving him the opportunity to catch up on some reading, but he found himself horribly distracted. His mind was crackling with the potential of his journey, and what it could mean to the health of his wife. He could hardly focus on reports of increased paranormal activity across the world, or the latest offers from television and streaming networks.

  The more he tried to concentrate, the more they transformed into gibberish, and he eventually gave up, closing his eyes and attempting to sleep.

  But sleep had been as elusive there, as it had been in his hotel room.

  He leaned his head back against the cool wooden paneling as the elevator descended to the lobby, feeling the tug of exhaustion. If the journey down had been just a little bit longer, he very well might have fallen asleep. But the elevator lurched to a stop, and with a cheery ding, the doors slid open on the richly decorated lobby. Pushing off the wall, he exited, his every sense attun
ed to one thing for this particular moment, and one thing only, the location of coffee.

  He smelled the rich scent of the morning necessity, and then viewed the large copper urns placed against the wall in an open area with seats. It was still early enough that there weren’t many people up yet, so he didn’t have to wait for his first cup.

  Thank God. He scanned the area, looking for a sign that someone might be watching for him. The sponsor of the monastery dig had promised to send somebody to collect him and drive him out to the location. Fogg grabbed a cup and selected a coffee from one of the four urns. It didn’t matter what kind it was, as long as it was hot and strong.

  The first sip was like Heaven, and he felt that little kick, probably more psychological than anything else, lift his energy level, prompting him to take the next.

  “Do you notice the difference?” a voice asked him.

  John turned around to see an older, well-dressed gentleman behind him. He was immaculately dressed, but John’s eyes were drawn to his face, the left side of which was badly scarred. Looking at the old wounds, he could only think of the vestiges of some sort of wild animal attack.

  “Good morning,” John said, stepping aside so the man could serve himself a cup.

  “I was talking about the coffee,” the old man said, moving to the center urn. He took a cup, placed it beneath the spigot, and filled it with the dark liquid. “This here is the elixir vitae, while what you drink in the United States . . .”

  The old man smiled then, making the left side of his face appear even more horrible.

  “Maybe it has something to do with the urns,” John said, pointing out the copper containers, before taking another larger sip from his own cup.

  The old man stared at him, slowly bringing his cup up to his mouth, where he carefully drank. A handkerchief then appeared from out of his suit coat pocket and he dabbed at the damaged side of his mouth so as not to dribble. “The container is just that—a container.” He paused, his stare suddenly intense. “It is what is inside that is the key.”

  And suddenly John’s thoughts weren’t of coffee and copper urns, but of another container and the evils that it contained, evils that had been unleashed that horrible Halloween night.

  Evils that had taken, and changed, his wife.

  John stared at the man who continued to sip his coffee and delicately dab at the left hand side of his face.

  “Why do I suddenly think you know more about me than I know about you?” John said, moving toward the urn to refill his cup.

  The older gentlemen stepped aside so John could pass.

  “I apologize, Mr. Fogg,” the old man said. “Your celebrity precedes you, especially since the tragic events of Halloween last. Oh yes, even in Europe we are aware of the incident that claimed the lives of your Spirit Chasers investigators and severely injured both you and your wife.”

  John stared at the man, attempting to figure him out. There was something odd about him.

  “Your wife, how is she recovering?” The old man turned his good eye to John.

  “She’s doing well, thank you,” John said. Looking around, he found a cart that held clean cups, mugs, and saucers and set his cup down. “I don’t believe I got your name, Mr. . . . ?” He held out his hand for the man to shake, but he was left hanging.

  “That evening, Mr. Fogg,” the scarred old man said. “It has affected us here as well.”

  “I’m not quite sure I understand,” John said, feeling his ire on the rise.

  “Just a simple utterance to make you aware that you, and your wife, are not alone,” he said.

  John was just about to barrage the man with questions when he heard his name called from the lobby behind him. He turned only for a moment to signal the driver that he was there, but it was long enough for the scarred old gentleman to disappear.

  The only sign that he had even been there, the second dirty coffee cup sitting on the cart beside John’s own.

  The scarred old man walked around the corner of the hotel and approached a waiting silver sedan. He opened the back passenger door, slid inside, and pulled the door closed again behind him.

  The driver’s eyes found his in the rearview mirror.

  “Well?” the driver asked.

  The old man thought for a moment, a tentative finger stroking the damaged flesh around the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.

  “But you did make contact?” the driver asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Word from the States is that Fogg has bought and is renovating a new home. He’s planning on bringing his wife there, when and if she’s able.”

  “I’m not quite sure how I feel about that,” the old man said, gazing out the tinted passenger window.

  “You’d known if you had seen her,” the driver said, reminding him of his journey to, and observations at, the Cho Institute. “There was nothing good going on in that hospital room, let me tell you.”

  “Let’s head back,” the old man said as the sedan pulled into the flow of traffic. He could feel the driver’s eyes returning to him, and looked to meet the man’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

  “What are we going to do, Elijah?” the driver asked.

  Elijah turned back to the window, watching as the ancient city of Bucharest passed quickly by. “We’ll wait. Watch—see if he can be trusted.”

  “And if he can’t?” the driver asked.

  “Then we’ll be forced to do something about our Mr. Fogg,” Elijah said. He had started to gently stroke the damaged part of his face again.

  “Him and his wife.”

  The Land Rover rocked up and down, driving over the rugged terrain up into the foothills of the Southern Carpathians, heading for the ruins of the Wallachian Monastery.

  “How exactly was it discovered?” John asked as he bounced from side to side.

  “That’s actually a pretty interesting story,” the driver, whose name was Scottie, said as he carefully drove the SUV up the pitted dirt road. “My employer bought the property to build a luxury resort. The demolition team discovered the storage chambers beneath the monastery.”

  “Your employer was tearing down the remains of a seven-hundred year-old monastery to build a resort?” John asked in disbelief.

  Scottie glanced at him and then back to the road. “That’s right,” he said with a smile. “It would have been another jewel in the crown of my lord and master, Cyril Anastos.”

  “Nice,” John said sarcastically, holding on to the strap above the passenger-side door as the car continued to buck and dip. Anastos was considered one of the world’s richest men, his vast fortune accrued through real estate and the Anastos family’s shipping empire.

  “Hey, at least he didn’t continue the demolition,” Scottie said. “As soon as the subchamber was unearthed, Mr. Anastos stopped the build and brought in a special research team to figure out what it was they’d found.”

  “A secret library,” John said, the knot of anticipation that he’d been feeling since being contacted by Johan Booth, the head of the research team, intensifying.

  “Indeed,” Scottie said with a happy nod. “I do have to say, Mr. Anastos was quite pleased when he heard that you would be coming to help. He’s quite the fan of your television programs.”

  The Land Rover rolled up over a small hill and that was when John saw it, an ancient stone structure, the front looking as though it had been erected yesterday, while the back portion had partially crumbled to ruin.

  “Here we are,” Scottie announced, parking alongside a row of trailers that appeared to be serving as a base of operations.

  John could wait no longer. He quickly unsnapped his seat belt and climbed from the car, and that was when he noticed them—men armed with automatic rifles pacing around the back ruins of the monastery, keeping a watchful eye on all activity.

  He must have looked startled, because as Scottie joined him, he said, “Not to worry—just our security team. Mr. Anastos is very protective
of what he believes is his and he doesn’t want to risk anything being taken.”

  John counted at least ten heavily armed guards. It seemed a little like overkill, but over the years he’d seen countless excavations looted of priceless antiquities, so he guessed that he couldn’t blame Anastos. This just made him even more anxious to see what had been uncovered.

  “Hello there,” someone called from behind them, and John turned to see a large, heavily bearded man emerging from inside one of the trailers.

  “Ah,” Scottie said. “That’s Professor Johan Booth. He’s in charge of the dig.”

  “Professor Booth,” John said, watching as the large man descended the four steps to the ground. He grabbed John’s hand, shaking it vigorously.

  “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Fogg,” the man said. “When Scottie told me they were bringing you in, I was first a little surprised and then a bit concerned.”

  “And why is that, Professor?” John asked pleasantly.

  “Let’s just say I was only familiar with the more sensational aspects of your career.” He released his powerful grip on John’s hand. “But now . . .”

  “But now I’ve been deemed worthy,” John said with smile. “Or at least I hope I have.”

  “After a brief Google search, I stand corrected and welcome your opinion on what we’ve found here,” the professor reassured him.

  “I can’t wait,” John said as Professor Booth started to usher him toward the ruins. “Will you be joining us, Scottie?”

  “Oh no,” the driver said with a slight shake of his head. “I’ll leave this to the experts.” Then he excused himself, walking toward the Land Rover, taking his phone from his pocket and starting to make a call.

  “Right this way, Mr. Fogg,” the professor said.

  “John—please.”

  “Of course, and please call me Johan.”

  They walked toward the back area of the monastery where the damage was the most pronounced.

  “The monastery is believed to have been the home of an anchoritic order of monks known as the Brothers of Heaven. They were a small and secretive brotherhood that lived lives of total isolation as they attempted to make their monastery the most blessed place on the planet in preparation for God’s return to Earth.”