Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 36

Rodney must have passed out yet again, and he’d gone foggy first.

Because he was all the way across the basement, some 200 feet from where he’d killed Phillippe.

No, not “killed.” Sacrificed. In this war, words were important, because they staked the moral ground.

He was nestled in an alcove snaked through with conduit and plumbing pipes, propped against the block wall. A hot bullet of agony ricocheted from temple to temple inside his skull. His lower jaw was numb, but the bleeding had stopped. The crucifix was back in place on its silver chain, the weight cool and comforting against his chest. His digital audio recorder was clutched in his right hand.

The lights in the basement were still on, suggesting no one had visited the basement since the hostess had locked the door. That seemed unlikely, since at least three people were missing from the conference.

But Belial wouldn’t report Nancy, because Belial was probably having the time of its life, unleashed on a playground of gullible acolytes. And Rodney doubted the pissed-off woman would tell anyone about her own embarrassing encounter. But SSI would be looking for Rodney. He was important, and the team members took care of their own.

A casual glance of the basement wouldn’t have revealed his presence, though. He’d instinctively tucked himself out of sight.

Or something dragged you here.

He was hungry and thirsty, meaning hours had likely passed. He looked at the audio recorder. Its red power light was on. He pressed the “play” button.

“Is anyone here?” he heard himself say on the recording.

He thumbed up the volume but heard only a slight electronic hiss.

“Are you here?” his recorded voice said.

Nothing.

“Is there someone with me?” Rodney’s tactic for EVP’s was to repeat each question three times in different wording, giving the target a chance to translate and respond.

Still nothing. He let the hiss play out for another fifteen seconds, studying the overhead pipes. The largest pipe appeared to be a sewer main, its white PVC a contrast to the cast-iron pipes of the original building. He’d already decided to follow the main—assuming he could stand—when the recorder said, “Yes.”

“What is your name?”

Asmodeus, Astaroth, Mammon. It could be any of the demons. Or perhaps just a ghost, but at this point in Rodney’s spiritual journey, God wouldn’t waste his time on mere disembodied spirits. No, Rodney had a special role on this battleground.

Nothing but Big Daddy Bad-Ass Demons for me.

“What is your name?” he repeated.

“You know,” answered the recording, in a coarse whisper.

Rodney clicked off the recorder. The red light blinked back on.

“Listen to me.”

“I only obey one master.”

“You’ll obey who I tell you.”

Rodney clasped the crucifix. “Are you God?”

“Would God lie?”

“You’ve already made me kill, and you killed your only begotten Son.”

“I didn’t kill Him, I gave Him to the world.”

“You gave other things to the world, too. Like Lucifer and his army.”

“I didn’t give Lucifer to the world. I gave the world to Lucifer.”

“Do you always have to talk in riddles and nonsense?”

“Do you always have to question God?”

“I’m your humble servant and I pray for guidance.”

“And all your actions have been sacred.”

“What is your will?”

“Go toward the light.”

“Die, you mean?” Rodney’s heart galloped, the surge of his pulse causing his head to ache.

“No, the light at the end.”

The basement lights went out, and the weight of darkness was a solid thing, pressing down and pinning him against the wall, suffocating him. Hands girded his neck, cold and flexing bands of corded muscle. As his throat constricted, he fumbled for the crucifix. Already weak, he knew he wouldn’t last long.

“The light,” whispered the voice, and then the hands abandoned his skin, leaving bruises in their wake.

Rodney coughed and rolled to his knees, tossing the digital recorder aside. A faint glow emanated from the far wall, toward the area Phillippe said was beneath the kitchen. Rodney crawled toward it, not understanding. But few had understood God’s calling, even the great prophets of the Old Testament. All they knew was that faith required faith, and faith often required action.

He bumped into a support beam, sending a sharp spark of burning pain across the backs of his eyelids.

Go toward the light, go toward the light.

His knees ached. The progress was so slow he wondered if he were moving backward. “What is the mission, God? Please show me your purpose.”

The absurdity struck him: he was following a sewer main that began at the kitchen. Follow the shit.

By the time he reached the far wall, he was gasping and clammy. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he eased down onto his stomach in the slick soil. To the left, up a series of three crumbling concrete steps, was a wooden door. He hadn’t seen it from the outside, so it must be an internal service door. If he remembered correctly, the laundry room and access alley were behind the kitchen, so the basement didn’t extend into those areas.

The light blinked on the digital recorder. He clicked it on and said, “Yes?”

“Do you see the light?”

“Yes, I am in the light.” His mouth was a jumble of rocks and glass but it was important to communicate clearly. So much pain and misery had been inflicted because God’s messages had been misinterpreted. Rodney wanted to get this one right.

“Look beside the light.”

Rodney squinted up into the nest of floor joists, wires and pipes. Pink fiberglass insulation hung loose like cobwebs out of a Dr. Seuss nightmare. From above came the dull clangor of kitchenware, and water sluiced through the pipes with a liquid rumble. It might have been the breakfast crew, or lunch, or maybe even dinner. He wondered if Phillippe had missed a shift.

“Show me the way, Lord.”

“You already see.”

Amid the tangle of utility pipes was a dull copper line, turned green with age. It descended from the kitchen floor and angled to the masonry wall, where it went through a hole that was patched with concrete. He pictured the kitchen, with its dishwashers, counters, racks of pots and pans, and the deep fryer baskets. The stoves, with their little blue pilot lights.

Fed by propane gas.

He smiled in understanding. Lucifer had made this basement his domain, and the White Horse had become the home of demons. Take away their home, and they could no longer play. True, evil could never be defeated, but it could be delayed. And the victims he’d delivered unto them would make the six demons sluggish and susceptible. Already they thought him weak, a puny servant of God who couldn’t even stand on his own two feet in the face of adversity.

Fight fire with fire.

That wasn’t in the Bible, not in so many words, but Exodus prescribed an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, foot for a foot, and burning for burning. Close enough.

Belial owed him a couple of teeth, at least. And Lucifer had earned quite a burning. Maybe not the eternal lake of fire that God would cast him in after Armageddon, but hot enough for now.

He fiddled with his equipment belt and pulled out his multi-use tool. A wire cutter, knife, screwdriver, and more, it also contained a pair of pliers. He’d be able to work on the copper. Just as soon as he was able to stand.

Soon.

But first, sleep.