CHAPTER THREE
After a quick search of the remaining areas of the church and dormitories, we found nothing else out of place. The three of us consulted quickly, and it was decided not to report Charles missing to the authorities for the time being. Aaron was, as you can imagine, completely against this but I’d shouted him down. I’m guessing the phrase ‘kidnapping by demonic servant of Hell’ wouldn’t have looked too good in his report. Besides, even rusty we were better equipped to investigate Charles’ disappearance then the police. Aaron excused himself curtly and stepped away to make a few calls. Peter went to make arrangements to have the doors repaired and to have parishioners who may turn up shepherded to the Anglican church down the street for the time being. This left me alone to contemplate the symbols and meaning of the ruined study. Runes and ancient languages had been a mandatory part of my study when I’d been a student here, but it had never been one of my strongest subjects. I was just thinking about going to find an old grimoire or text on the stuff when Flint and Kowalski seemingly materialized out of nowhere right next to me.
Kowalski looked around the room with a bored, yet appraising eye. After a minute he said “Sumerian…written in Manon marks or Kolbryn? What do you think Flint?”
“Dunno,” the big man grunted. “I called it in. Expert should be here in a bit. Wants us to take pictures and told me to tell you not to disturb anything.” Kowalski nodded and reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a miniature digital camera. It looked expensive.
“Mr. Bryson,” said Flint. “Could I ask you to step back please. You’re contaminating the scene.”
I couldn’t believe this. Charles was missing, St. Ignatius had been breeched, and here I had found my way into the cast of a witty forensics drama.
“Who the hell are you guys?” I asked.
The flash on the camera went off as Kowalski started documenting the study. Without missing a beat from his work, Kowalski said, “Private security.” And just like that I was dismissed.
I moved out of the way as the two men continued to work the room quickly and methodically. I really wanted to know who these guys were and why they had the run of the place. And to be honest, I was annoyed at being treated like a petulant child by these goons. I rubbed my right temple. Great, now a headache was coming on. Peter seemed to trust these guys, but for all I knew, Kowalski and Flint might be involved in Charles’ abduction somehow. I watched for a few more minutes, when I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I looked up and Peter was there, notebook and cordless phone in hand and looking as worried and tired as I felt. I glanced at my watch and it took me two tries before I could see the hands properly. Damn headache. It was quarter to midnight.
“Symon, I need you in the sanctuary. There are a few people there who’ve just arrived and they want to talk to you.” Before I could ask, he continued. “No, they aren’t the police. Aaron is still here, but he hasn’t called it in as of yet.” Peter turned on his heel and went back down the hall, dialing the phone as he went. With a glance back at Charles’ study, I followed.
There was a small group of people near the front pews, speaking in low voices with Aaron. Despite the years, I recognized them immediately. One was a very tall, thin black man wearing a priests’ frock. His hair had started to recede a bit and he was supporting a thin moustache and goatee. I hadn’t known Bill had joined the priesthood. He was chatting with a blonde woman dressed in what looked like a very expensive business suit, complete with a short yet tasteful skirt. Eden Engel looked like the epitome of the modern business executive, from her five hundred dollar haircut to her matching shoes and handbag from Gucci. I stopped when I noticed the third person whom I’d initially thought was sitting in a pew behind Eden. But now I noticed she was actually in a wheelchair. Eve Engel was identical to her sister in every way, as I had known them both years ago. But the resemblance was no longer as uncanny as it had once been. I knew that she had been affected by our disaster at Plum Island more than any of us, but the past decade had seemingly been harder on her. I was shocked to see her condition. What happened to Eve was one of many reasons I left. One of many things I blamed Charles for.
I honestly didn’t know how my old friends would react to seeing me. Maybe it was a combination of the long flight and exhaustion, but at the moment I didn’t care as much as I had thought I would during the flight over. I left this place ten years ago and chose to break my connection to these people. But Charles and I had some unfinished business to attend to once he was found and the current trouble sorted. That was the real reason for getting on the damn plane in the first place. But that had to wait until he was found. Based on what I’d seen tonight, I understood why Charles had wanted to put the band back together. The Monsignor had been snatched from Holy ground and that was supposed to be impossible. The only way I could think to find him and to get the Hell back to Ireland was to work with my old friends. Which included Aaron, Bill and the twins. Also, unfortunately, Janice. I wasn’t looking forward to that.
So I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out counting to ten as I did so. Suck it up Symon, I thought. You need these people. And besides, Janice doesn’t seem to be here.
Aaron and Eden were engaged in a very low, animated conversation when I had entered the sanctuary; Bill was standing silently by their side. Eve seemed to be sleeping silently in her chair. All of this, of course stopped as I, too distracted by my own thoughts, walked right into one of the tall, free-standing candles next to the alter. With a loud crash that echoed seemingly for a week, the ornate candle and metal stand tumbled to the floor.
“Schmuck.” I muttered to myself.
Aaron and Eden stopped talking and turned to look at me. Bill stood there, one eyebrow raised like Mr. Spock in Star Trek and folded his arms, giving me a very Peter-esque look. Must be taught in Priest school. Eve stirred, but settled back down.
“Nice one, Sy,” said Aaron in that voice of his. “Like the entrance. Subtle and with all the grace of…”
“Oh shut up Aaron. When did you become such a pompous ass?” That was Eden. Tonight, she’s my hero. Eden came over to me and hugged me, something I wasn’t even remotely expecting. I hugged her back. It’s been a long night.
“Awful news about Charles. I know he’d be glad you came.” It was a strange comment with the circumstances being what they were. I filed it away as something I could think about later.
“I didn’t know Eve was in a wheelchair,” I said. “What happened?”
Eden teared up a bit. “She was never right after Plum Island.” She said, voice breaking a little. “I thought she’d turned a corner, but she’s gotten really bad in the last few months. Eve doesn’t have any lucid moments any more. She seems to be in a constant dream state. It’s frightening, Symon.”
I looked over at the infirm twin. It looked as though she was sleeping peacefully in her wheelchair. I knew better, of course. Eve was an empath. A damn strong one too. Plum Island had broken her. And it broke my heart to see her that way. Bill, I’d noticed, had come to stand by Eden, putting his hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
Without looking at me, he said, “Symon. It’s good to see you again. Eden, there isn’t a lot of time.”
Eden wiped away a tear and appeared to pull herself together. “Of course you are right, Father. Stay here and see what you can find out. I’ll go look in the Monsignor’s study.”
Eden, apparently, was the expert the two creepy security guards were waiting for. I should have guessed that, as ancient languages and symbols had been one of her many skills when we were growing up. It wasn’t a field of study that many kids majored in. And just for fun, she’d gotten degrees in biology and chemistry as well. She was unbelievably smart, as smart as Eve had been intuitive. Eden left us and heading toward the back, pausing to show her respect to the alter and the figure of Christ depicted hanging on the cross suspended on the wall behind the alter.
I watched her go, mixed emotions all fighting for dominance in my mind. I turned to look back at Eve when Bill clasped my arm.
“Sy, we’ve all missed you. Charles the most, I’m sure of it. He’d be very glad to see you’ve come to help.”
“When did you get ordained, Bill?” I asked absentmindedly.
“Let’s catch up later,” he said. “I already spoke to Aaron. What’s your take on what’s going on?”
I walked through everything that had happened since I stepped off the plane at Logan. Peter and the security guards; what I noticed about the damaged church; the feelings and smells in the church. The voice we had heard.
“It took some very evil and powerful magic to get into the church,” Bill mused. “Something must have invited the creature in either accidently or on purpose, I don’t know.”
I agreed with him. We started to discuss possibilities when Aaron came up to us.
“I really need to get an APB out on Charles, guys.” he said, frustration coloring his every word. “I can get the airports and train stations closed and coverage of all the highways within the hour.”
I laughed. I probably shouldn’t have, but I did anyway.
“What, Aaron,” I mocked, sounding much harsher then I’d meant to. Hey, I was tired and my head felt like it was going to split open with the migraine that I’d developed.
“You think the demon grabbed Charles, called a cab then put him on a flight to Bermuda? For God’s sake…”
“I don’t see the great Symon Bryson doing anything to find him!” he spat back. “We can handle this. Why don’t you go back to Ireland and hide in your apartment. It’s what you’re good at.”
“Son of a bitch,” I moved to hit him, but Bill grabbed me.
“Stop it. Both of you. This is the worst thing that could happen now. We’ll never find Charles if the two of you are at each other’s throats!”
Aaron and I continued to have a go at each other, our voices rising; Bill’s deep baritone rising as well to try and talk some sense into us. But neither Aaron nor I were going to back down. Ten years was a long time to keep emotions bottled up and we were both stressed to the breaking point.
All of a sudden the pain in my head exploded. Stars danced across my vision. I put my hands to my temples but the pounding wouldn’t stop. I staggered backwards a bit and was vaguely aware that both Bill and Aaron seemed to be in distress as well.
That’s when Eve screamed.
"...THERE Roaches!"
Janet Mercer sat nervously sipping her black and tan in McSorley’s Old Ale house on 7th Street in the East Village of Manhattan a few doors from her cheap apartment house. The famous pub was filled with old trinkets from decades past. There were a pair of handcuffs attached to the bar rail--said to have belonged to the great Houdini. There were wishbones hanging above the bar. Young soldiers heading off to World War One supposedly placed them there. Those ‘dough-boys’ who had come home safely had collected their wishbones back. Far too many remained unclaimed.
Although the history of the ale house had always fascinated the young aspiring actress from Wisconsin, tonight the normally chatty and inquisitive Janet sat alone in a dark corner nursing her half-pints aimlessly running her fingers over decades-old graffiti carved into the thick butcher-block table.
Janet ignored the hellos that normally led to hours of conversation and laughter. She even didn’t react in the normal mock-indignation she feigned to the delight of the elderly regulars when they booed every woman coming out of the ladies restroom. New York had made McSorley’s put in a ladies room back in the seventies much to the chagrin of it’s all male clientele.
The history, the conversations, the good-natured needling didn’t matter. Not this evening. Not when a full moon was only a few hours away.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the door to the old pub opened and the ancient brass bell tinkled signaling the arrival of another customer.
A heavy-set man wearing greenish-gray dirty cover-alls walked into the pub. He was about five foot six, wore coke bottle glasses and had long thin greasy hair tied in a ponytail. He was unshaven and a bit grimy, with dark stains scattered sporadically over his one piece. He looked like a sanitation worker who’d gotten off a long shift. A filty, sewed on name tag said ‘Dinklespot.’
The man looked around the room, his dark beady eyes adjusting to the dim light of the ale house. His gaze found Janet, and he walked over to her and sat down without an invitation.
“Ms. Mercer?” he said in a high-whiney sort of voice.
“Yes,” Janet replied tentatively.
“Dinklespot,” he said. “I understand you have a problem.”
Janet looked over the man and her resolve waned a bit. She’d been in her little apartment for almost three months and had experience the strangeness of two full moons. Janet had been dreading a third experience due this evening, when she had come across a little flyer that had been posted on the street lamp outside her building:
SCARED OF THE FULL MOON?
I CAN HELP
LEAVE WHERE AND WHEN
(212) 555-2847
She had rang the number and left a message to meet her at McSorley’s. She might be from a little town in Wisconsin, but she wasn’t stupid. A public place was always the best place to meet up with strangers.
Janet looked over Dinklespot a second time. “I think this might have been a mistake. I’m sorry to have wasted your time...” she began to stand when the strange man grasped her arm.
“When the moon is full it happens,” whispered Dinklespot intensely. You hear strange noises after midnight. You’re afraid to leave your bedroom. The next morning, your things are strewn about the apartment and all your food; even what’s in the refrigerator, is gone. Am I right?”
Janet slowly sat down.
“Is there a problem, lassie?” called an Irish brogue from behind the bar.
“No, it’s fine, Seamus,” Janet called back.
In a lower voice she said to the man, “Everyone at the restaurant thinks I’m crazy. But I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Dinklespot nodded knowingly and released Janet’s arm.
“Every full moon for the last couple of months, it’s happened,” began Janet rapidly, throwing the explanation out there as if an auction caller. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. Oh Mr. Dinklespot, what’s happening?”
“Were-roaches,” he said simply.
“What?” asked Janet confused.
“Scourge of the city,” said Dinklespot. “Were-roaches.”
“What the Hell are ware-roaches?” sputtered Janet out loud. Patrons at the surrounding tables turned to look at her.
“Shhh!” Hissed Dinklespot. “You’ve heard of werewolves?”
“Sure,” Janet said, her voice breaking slightly. “I have an audition for a werewolf musical tomorrow, in fact. But I’ve never heard of where...where...”
“Were-roaches,” said Dinklespot seriously. “Same concept as werewolves, only smaller with more legs. I’ve made it my mission to take care of them.” Dinklespot shook his head.
“It’s personal, so don’t ask,” he added.
“Can you help me?” Janet asked miserably.
“The moon is almost up and it will be midnight soon. Let’s get my gear,” said Dinklespot in reply.
* * *
Janet fumbled nervously with the key to her apartment building. She and Dinklespot had retrieved a large, black gym bag from the back of a dilapidated white Ford van parked on seventh.
“I’m sorry, I’m just... ya know...just really nervous,” said Janet as she finally got the key into the lock and turned. The front door opened with an ominous creak.
“No problem, ma’am. Happens all the time in my line of work,” said Dinklespot as they entered the converted brownstone.
They made there way up two flights of stairs. The building smelled musty and the dim glow of a single bare light bulb threw shadows that seemed to follow the two mockingly as they made their way to Janet’s apartment.
Fumbling again with her keys, she finally let them inside. Janet’s little apartment was typical of an East Village conversion. The entryway opened into a small living room/dining room combo with beat up hardwood floors. A galley kitchen with cheap wood paneled cabinets and avocado-colored appliances was off to the right. The place was sparsely furnished with a rickety card table with folding chairs and a paisley-patterned couch. A small television sat on top of a plastic milk case in the corner.
“It’s not much,” Janet said. “But the price was right. Can you really help me Mr. Dinklespot?”
The little man smiled. “I’m a professional, ma’am.”
He sat his gym bag down in the center of the room, unzipped it and pulled out two cans of what looked like bug spray. They were black with no labeling with silver plastic tops.
“What’s that?” asked Janet.
“My own concoction,” said Dinklespot. “Silver nitrate mixed with RAID.”
“And that will kill these...were-roaches?”
“Oh heavens no,” said Dinklespot as if speaking to a slow child. “They don’t like the stuff so they’ll go around it. I’ll spray it around the baseboards of the place, leaving open a spot in the living room here. Then we’ll bait the trap.”
The man went about his work, humming tunelessly to himself as he sprayed the silver RAID around the apartment. While he was in her bedroom, Janet took a peak in Dinklespot’s gym bag. It seemed to contain more cans of the were-roach spray and a white plastic garbage bag that smelled slightly foul. Before she could investigate further, the man came back into the living room.
“Right,” he said. “That should do it. Now for the bait, and then we wait for midnight.” Dinklespot reached into his gym bag and pulled out the white plastic. He unwrapped it and plopped a large piece of raw meat right in the center of the floor.
Janet wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Is that really necessary?” she asked choking back a bit of bile from the now overwhelming stench.
“Only the best will get them all out,” said Dinklespot. “And I want all of them tonight.”
Trying to only breath from her mouth, Janet said, “We really haven’t talked about your fee, Mr. Dinklespot. Maybe if you could tell me what you charge I can head out to an ATM to get you cash...?”
“Oh no,” he said. “There is no charge. I told you. This is my passion. I’ve been looking for the nest in this area for a while.”
Janet coughed as she mistakenly used her nose to breathe. “Then maybe I should leave you to it and come back when the job is...”
“Please stay,” said Dinlespot. “After all, you want to be sure the job is done right, don’t you?”
Janet thought about the last two full moons and shuddered. “Yeah, I guess so.”
The two fell into silence for the next three-quarters of an hour. As midnight approached, Janet asked. “So. If the bug spray doesn’t kill them, how do you get rid of the were-roaches? Cut their little heads off?”
“No,” said Dinklespot. “That would just leave a bunch of headless were-roaches running around. You’ll see.” And with that, the man fell silent once more.
The church bells down the street began to chime. Midnight of the full moon was finally here. Janet suddenly felt cold, and goose flesh popped up and down her arms. She moved closer to Dinklespot.
“Do you hear it?” he whispered.
Janet cocked her head to one side and listened. A ‘scritch-scritch’ sound was coming from behind the baseboards. The sound was all around them.
“I left a little open spot right over there,” Dinklespot said pointing near Janet’s TV.
The apartment lights were off, only the moonlight that streamed in through the dusty window illuminated the apartment. But even through the dim gloom, Janet could make out movement in the corner Dinklespot had indicated.
A cockroach came out from behind the TV. Hesitant at first, then with more confidence it skittered across the floor toward the raw feast in the center of the room. The bug crossed into the windowpane-shaped moonlight reflection on the floor and stopped dead in its tracks.
Antennae twitching, the bug began to shake. Then there was a light ‘crack’ sound as it’s hard, brown shell-like body split from head to thorax. The little creature let out a tiny howl.
“Oh God...that’s what I heard!” stammered Janet.
The exoskeleton of the roach split even wider, and the little creature seemed to expand in size. Crawling out of the shattered roach was something that looked like a cross between a tarantula and a nightmare. A hairy, six-legged creature easily three times the size of the original roach slowly made it’s way out of the ruins of the bug. The transformation complete, the were-roach reared up on its hind legs and gave a high-pitched howl, snapping its fangs hungrily.
From behind the baseboard, hundreds of tiny muffled howls answered the cry.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Jane. “Do something Dinklespot!”
“Patience, ma’am,” said the man quietly. “We want them all, remember?”
There was a deeper, somehow more menacing scuttling from behind the baseboards and the creatures made there way to the only exit provided by Dinklespot. The little TV fell off it’s egg crate as the baseboard exploded behind it and hundreds of the little fury monsters poured into the apartment. Janet screamed.
The creatures, howling and snarling as they went, made a beeline toward the trap Dinklespot had set. Within seconds the meat was devoured.
“Dinklespot!” screamed Janet.
“Oh, you’ve been very bold,” said Dinklespot in a cooing voice. “It’s time to go home.”
“What are you talking about?” shouted Janet in horror. “Kill them!”
“Kill them?” said Dinklespot. “What are you, some sort of monster? You don’t kill children!”
With that, the little man opened the zipper on his overalls. He let out a little grunt as his bare chest began to pulsate. The skin on his sternum split bloodlessly and large, hairy insect like limbs began to rip apart Dinklespot’s flesh from the inside.
“Come my children!” hissed a voice from the chest cavity. “First you may feast on the female, then we will go home!”
“Fuck this,” spat Janet as the little horrors turned toward her. She dove for the gym bag. Grabbing cans of silver RAID in each hand she prayed. Then sprayed.
Squeals of pain came from the little were-roaches as silvery foam touched their skin. Janet sprayed at anything that moved.
“No!” Hissed the Dinklespot-bug, still only halfway out of it’s human flesh cocoon. “Don’t hurt them! Bitch!”
The larger were-roach struggled frantically to extract itself from its human form. Tossing away the now empty cans, Janet scooped up two more and walked over to Dinklespot, stepping over its squealing off-spring. She flipped the silver tops off both cans and emptied the contents right into the face of the the Dinkle-were-roach.
A loud howl of pain was followed immediately by the were-roach flopping out from Dinklespot’s chest. The human body fell to the floor with a sickly thud as a bug the size of a small dog; now covered in bubbling welts, also fell twitching to the hardwood. For each loud bellow the large were-roach gave, the smaller creatures mimicked the sound with their higher-pitched voices.
Janet, realizing the hoard of smaller were-roaches were connected to their parent, dropped the second set of bug spray cans to the ground and ran into her little kitchen. She grabbed a large butcher knife from the counter and raced back into the living room.
Lifting the knife high over her head, Janet brought the blade down and cut off the Dinklespot-were-roaches’ head with one stroke.
The hundreds of smaller creatures let out a simultaneous screech, then went silent. Hundreds of little bodies twitched all over Janet’s apartment.
The head of the large were-roach rolled around for a moment and settled in front of the would-be actress, six eyes staring at Janet.
It laughed.
“I told you cutting heads off wouldn’t help!” it hissed.
The headless body of the Dinkle-were-roach began to move. Janet didn’t hesitate. With one big leap, she jumped and landed both feet on the large body. Guts splashed everywhere.
She stepped out of the disgusting mess, breathing heavy and looked around. None of the smaller were-roaches were moving. They were all dead.
Janet wiped sweat off her brow, breathing heavily. “How am I going to explain this to the landlord?” she panted.
A weak hiss answered her. “I’d worry more about the were-queen when she finds out what you’ve done,” said Dinklespot-bug as it died.
END
