The Black Bible

Horror 

Free Story

The Black Bible

By

Martin Brady

 

    Chapter 1

Paul

 

   "Come on, Paul, concentrate", said the ageing professor to himself.  His lightly greased hair moved obediently back into place with a gentle hand‑movement.  His eyes misted over and his neck muscles strained once more as he remembered.

  "Get a grip on yourself, she's not coming back.  Come to terms with it.  You've got to come to terms with it," he muttered to himself.  Young students glanced over at the professor, some worriedly, others concluded that he was going senile. 

  Paul noted the students badly masked attempts at observing him and he pulled his chair forward, pushing it against his back, straightening his posture in the University library.

  Normally, the tomed library was the perfect environment for Professor Paul Bondwell to concentrate.  Recently though, his mind had been overflowing with unrestrained sadness at the loss of his wife. 

  He reminisced...

                              **

  I scored my first in Ancient and Classical languages here over fifty‑years ago.  The museums came knocking on my door and I turned them away like beggars, I had a higher purpose. 

                              **

               Did I do the right thing?

              It's too late now, its done. 

                I can't change the past.

                              **

  Paul remembered his quiet adulation at coming top of the class.  He had plans for an even greater future, more education, more achievement, pier recognition and then domination.  At the time he thought that commercial work was not a challenge.  In his young mind, all it offered was tedium and repetition.

                              **

  My first research work, he realled, shaking his head as he recollected the black and white memories.  I thought I knew it all.  How wrong I was.  How arrogant and naive I was....

                              **

  There was a knock on the door to Mr. Spellings office, head of the Ancient Languages course.  Paul entered the stuffy office, closing the door slowly behind him.

  "Come on in, Paul, and make yourself comfortable", spoke the head of the course, offering a seat.  "What can I do for you?" 

  The timid youth, never known to mince words spoke quietly and assuredly and without reservation.  "I want to do postgraduate work, with your permission sir."

  "We'd be proud to have you, Paul."  The head of the department stood up abruptly and looked out of his window, admiring the campus grounds.  The green grass was the students most luxurious carpet.  Mr. Spelling played with a pen, gazing with a soft, warm and intelligent stare ‑ almost musing, trying to gather his thoughts together.

  "There are rumours that you are a prodigy, Paul; rumours amongst your lecturers, I mean.  They say you have a unique talent, the ability to understand the completeness of a meaning of text,  rather than just what the dictionaries hold for the average students.  They say you're special.  I'm a proud man, as I suppose are all men and so it is difficult for me to say that.  To give credence to a junior is always the most difficult of tasks."

  He paused.  "I'd be honoured if you studied at our university.  I realise you are young and as they say 'the world is your oyster'. What you are doing by continuing with your education is closing that shell once more and retiring back into the oyster.  It is my sincerest wish that when you re‑emerge, so to speak, you will be transmogrified, and reappear as a more precious pearl ‑ intellectually speaking."

  "I won't tell you that money isn't everything, that would be foolhardy, but I promise you that the college in particular my faculty, will provide you with as much help as humanly possible to help pay your way.  You know there have only been seven graduates doing further studies with this faculty in the last twenty years ‑ not endearing statistics.  People say we're just like the subjects that we study ‑ old fashioned.  You'll inject new blood and add a greater purpose to the course."  Mr. Spelling clenched his fist.  "You'll be a role model for your juniors.  I hope you appreciate what I've been saying.  Are you really sure that you want to do this?  Many of your lesser classmates will be driving cars and dating when you'll be cycling and studying."

  "I realise that sir, but I want to continue with my studies."  Paul nodded easily and smiled.

  "Very good", said the head.

  "That's settled then.  And now to the necessary preliminaries.  What specific area of study are you interested in, then?"

  "Ancient languages of devil worshippers and the occult," he replied softly, like a gentle breeze rustling throught the branches of an ancient oak tree.

   The smile left the head's face.  He looked up at Paul both with bewilderment and shock.

  Young man the world is your oyster.

                              **

  Fifty three years of empty promises to my wife finally killed her.  There was the car we could never afford, the refrigerator that was always leaking, the cold damp winters with no heating, the cat that left because the scraps weren't sufficient.  53,000 broken promises and one stroke later she performed the final act in the all too real play that was her life ‑ she died.  And throughout it all she never forgot to love me.  Even when society unofficially brought in divorce for poverty.

  In all my life, thought Paul, I never believed in a God.  Never once did I feel that presence, that omnipotent force, that awareness which religious people talked so fervently about called 'the faith'.

  My only faith was in my own self-existence; self‑indulgence and leprous studying were my first and most endearing rewards ‑ hard work produces results; that's a fact, not a feeling.  Religion, the fool's paradise, utopia smelling of non‑existence.  Have faith and play the fool.  Live on the brink of belief only to wait to fall in to the abyss that is despair.  Who needs it?  I don't, I'm not going to become the Christian sheep; one of nature's most stupid animals.  How safe are sheep when there is no shepherd? They fall prey to the wolf.

  The most popular God of my country is money, thought Paul.  The TV Robin‑Hoods rob from the rich to give to the poor in the name of goodness while they pocket the cash.  The disciples who balance the books.  God is broke, can you spare a dime for him?  I read it in the papers every day.

  Read all about it!  Read all about it! - Woman marries for love and divorces for money.  When cash comes to town love takes the back seat.

  In the cynical years of my life Madge still cared for me.  Maybe I was just looking to her to be blindly loyal. I should have provided better for her, she deserved more.

                              **

  It was only then that Paul realised he was thinking about Madge again.  She was inescapable.  Paul placed his hand over his wet eyes and held back the tears.  He took a handckerchef out of his pocket and blew his nose, trying to get a hold on his emotions.

                              **

  I suppose, we all seek a meaning in life.  In reality there is no one meaning but many meanings.  When those experiences that fashion our lives die or fade gently away then we die.  'Life is the permanent possibility of sensation' said the great philosophers.  Dying doesn't happen all at once but slowly and insidiously like the senility that follows people around like the rainman.  My mind is growing senile, good and bad are cancelling like charges ‑ soon there'll be nothing left.  I thought that my work gave me meaning but without Madge it's all become so transparent.  What am I to do with myself? How am I to cope?  Does anyone care?

                              **

  Stop it! he thought.  Stop wallowing in self‑pity,  you simpering fool.  He closed the text book that he was reading and looked out of the windows of the stuffy library.  The sun was beaming outside.  Life was passing him by.

  That was Paul's crux, he thought nobody cared for him anymore.

                              **

  We all need to be loved, thought Paul, just like the child that dies from lack of love.  That must be the saddest child in the world, it can't tell anyone how it feels.  It doesn't know how to talk.  It's sad and it can't even tell itself it's lonely.  No wonder it dies.   I'm acting just like that grown‑up child.  I've come full cirle, grown old, I'm returning to my second childhood.

                              **

  Paul's work was not fruitful but sterile and it took more with all his giving.  Even now it was drawing the sap of life from his body.  All that remained of his marriage were a motley collection of photographs and some savings both partners had been amassing for their retirement.

                              **

  I can go senile but I'll be secure, I've a reasonable pension now.  But you can't buy love ‑ you can't buy your wife a new life ‑ you can't...

  The bigger the sum of money you have, the bigger your circle of friends ‑ like flies around jam, waiting to pounce and lay their eggs.

  You can buy respectability if you're rich enough.

  You can't buy love.

                              **

  I can quote the entire contents of the Black Bible; the foreseen happenings of devil worshippers around the world ‑ and what does it mean??

  Paul had asked himself this question a thousand times already, and as yet there seemed to be no answer.

                              **

  As a youth, Paul had a great fascination with the occult.  It was absolute.  Good and evil.  The two absolute charges of the Universe.

  There was evil, in ancient writing and scriptures just asking to be deciphered.  It whispered in his ear the way a lover suggests:  Make me into a Bible.  Make me real, let people behold me so they can marvel about me, so they can believe in me.

  And he did until Madge found out...

  She shouted:  "I won't have you creating something evil.  The world is full of evil, don't be a part of it.  I love you Paul, don't make me hate you."

  Don't make me hate you Paul.

  I love you, Paul, cried the Devil.

                              **

  "In the beginning there was nothing.  And two spoke, the first said, Let there be light, and there was.  Another spoke, Let there be darkness, and there was."  So it was that Paul's Black Bible was created.

  "Burn it Paul, destroy it, before it destroys you!" argued Madge when she was alive.

  But Paul couldn't destroy his life's work, he might as well kill himself.  And so a compromise was reached; he told Madge that he had destroyed it.  Privately, he hid it in an unmarked university locker.  He wrote no more, there was only one section to be completed, The Apocalypse.

  That same year Madge died from a stroke, leaving him with his guilt and unfinished work.  His life had become a meaningless abyss.  A black hole in the centre of Paul's soul sucked his lifeforce, slowly but surely, away.

  He argued incessantly with himself:  The bible isn't a work of evil, it's a work of art just like todays Christian Bible. 

                              **

  The Black Bible traced the history of devil rituals, incarnations, spells, possessions and the thoughts of all the great evildoers throughout history.

                              **

  He thought:  I don't believe in God, I don't believe in the Devil.  They're merely figments of peoples over‑active imaginations.  They simply represent the struggle of man's intellect versus his primeval instincts.  Evolution never finished us off. 

  There remains the parts present in all our brains passed down to us by our neandolithic predecessors.  They talk to us when we wake, when we sleep, when we eat and even when we make love.  The animal cries out from within us "Free us from these civilised bonds ‑ release us.  Let us rule the earth once more.  Let us feed."  The evil that men do is not by any demi‑God that stalks the lonely nights, but rather the enemy within.

  God does not exist I am sure of that.  Why can man not be good without a belief in something good?  Maybe it is self‑evident that we are born morally corrupt.  Why is it that the good are always destroyed with the bullet or on crucifixes?  Can man not come to terms with good ‑ pure goodness cannot be tolerated by society only institutionalised.  Put it behind a glass case and admire it, but don't let it become too real.  Society is intrinsically evil, those who rule us are afraid to tell us the truth.  Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.  The evil within. 

  Who needs the Devil when we have money?

  Morality is a panacea to condition the mind, it has to be.  The Black Bible is merely a book of conduct on immoral human behaviour, it must be.

                              **

  Paul was never fully sure of these thoughts, only more sure than not.

                              **

  My Black Bible will be nothing more than a work of art.  It will be placed high on the pedestal along with all the other great works.  The triumph of the mind over the body ‑ Paul Bondwell the great pioneer, the seer of 'truth'.  Society coming to terms with itself through my Bible.

  Yes, he thought, hopefully.  This was his dream, ever since he had been a youth. 

  Paul saddened as it was this book which caused his wife to distance herself from him.  He was resolute that she would not be seen as it's first casualty.  It was going to be a good thing not a seen as something bad.

  Not bad, not evil. 

  But how could he have control over events? he asked himself.  People could always blame Madge's death on the supernatural ‑ it had no defence.

  Madge died of natural causes; old age.

  Her blood was old and so was her body.  He realised, arterial disease is often caused by great stress and anxiety.  He knew he was not to blame, he hoped he was not to blame.  But he could not disown the Bible, it was his child, his creation. 

                              **

  I have achieved nothing when I cannot finish the Bible.

                              **

  It was Paul's only work of any notability.  He cursed his sex drive and its inability to produce children.  He would not have felt so lonely if he had been able to have children.  He would have talked to them; given and taken advice.  Children, the mortals immortality.  Instead all he had were the choices that chased though his mind ‑ your life is nearly over and you're nobody.  Nothing...

                              **

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, feed the worms Paul, let them feast on your useless body.

                              **

  I had to finish it Madge, I had to! he thought.  Can't you understand that?  Won't you understand that?  I've nothing left but my work since you've been gone. 

  But his subconscious wife replied:  "Liar, cheat, cur, devils disciple.  You created something more evil than yourself.  That is the worst sin.  You killed me with your obsession.  You grew so jealous of your colleagues.  You felt so superior, you fool!  You were always better than them.  Notoriety isn't everything.  Love conquers all Paul, love conquers all."

                              **

  With the passing of the years and Paul's youth came disillusionment.  His work as a young man was not acclaimed. 

  Why were prodigies always so young? It wasn't fair.

  His supernatural work labelled him as a someone to keep clear of, and he was placed by his department in a small musty room out of harms way.

                              **

  Notoriety is everything Madge.  What good is my work if nobody sees it?

                              **

  Her subconscious voice did not reply to him this time.  There was nothing but the quietness of his own thoughts.  He finished the Black Bible with the same cataclysmic proportions of the Christian Bible.  He invented a piece from his own mind.

  I have the right. Throughout the Bible I have been totally objective, I deserve my own subjective opinion. 

  And he added the lines:

                              **

  I dream of a landscape where the sea boils, the sky is blood‑red masked with clotted clouds, no azure blue.

  The air hums with the sound of droning drums and my ears are shattered.

  It is strangely warm but wet and the air is still.

  The waves crash against the cliffs hewing up the carcasses of the dead.

  All is black, all is sick, all is death.

  All hope is gone, no renewed faith, for the Lord has turned upon us.

  The land is covered in crucifixes as far as the eye can see.

  Fully inverted to show the world through the eyes of the Lord.

  His wrath knows no end.

  An eternity of wailing and screaming,

  And all that answers is the echoes of their own voices.

                              **

  As he finished the last line of the Black Bible, the room grew dark and he felt a stiffness in his chest.  He panted for air.  A cold breath blew against the back of his neck and a voice whispered in his ear:

  Whispering cold whispers.

  Naked thoughts flow. 

  Thank you Paul.

  Humanity thanks you with all it's heart.

  The voice laughed inside his head.  His heart condition always brought on cold sweats and respiratory problems but never voices in his head.

  Paul wondered if he was losing his mind.

Chapter 2

Commemoration

 

  A hand tapped Paul on the shoulder as he took a tablet to steady his frayed nerves.  He jumped nervously.

  "Are you all right Paul?", inquired John Stiowisky a young postgraduate student.  Paul recognised the  talented multi‑lingual translator.  He always showed Paul a lot of respect and understanding.  John was tall, with brown scraggy hair, his eyes were lined but he had a youthful complexion.

  "Yes John I'm fine.  It's my heart, it murmurs of old age", spoke Paul.  He deftly placed a blank piece of paper over the final page of his Bible.

  I worry about that old man, he's so caught up in his work. It'll kill him.  Nothing is that important.  His wife's death seems to have thrown him off balance. 

  "You shouldn't work so hard Paul, why not take the weekend off? I know a great place for trout fishing. It so quiet you can hear yourself think.  Fresh air, good food and good company.  My mother would love to meet you. How about it, come on, you're only young once", John laughed as he spoke the last sentence trying to inject some humour into the conversation.

  "It sounds wonderful, I'll take up your offer when I get some spare time"

  You never get spare time Paul, you know that as well as I do, thought John.  That manuscript takes up all your spare time and more.  It's like an obsession.

  I don't want him to get too removed from reality.  I hope he isn't going senile, he has such a brilliant mind. 

  "I'll take that as a yes if you promise to make some spare time for me before the end of the semester.  It's summer and the trout will be dancing to the flies in the evenings.  We can take out a couple of beers, place them in a cool mountain stream, and get quietly drunk.  Wouldn't you like to get away to some nice quite place?  It gets awfully stuffy here at midday."

  Yes I would like to, thought Paul, if Madge were alive I'd be already accepting his offer.  Life doesn't seem to have the same spice without her.  John's really trying so hard to help me; just like the son I never had.

  "Yes, I'd like that.  And I promise I'll make the time before the end of semester.", spoke Paul.

  "Good", John said satisfactorily, "that's settled then.  Now I've something to give you."  John handed Paul a folder with pages inscribed with the strangest ink he had ever seen. 

  "What type of ink is this?", asked Paul.

  "It's not ink it's blood, this document is a nasty piece of work.  It comes from a young man who committed suicide yesterday.  I'd rather not tell you the details because it's rather gory, I was given these by my uncle who's a police chief downtown.  He couldn't make any sense of them and thought I might be able to help him out.  Apparently the person slit his wrists and used the  blood to write this document.  I knew you were the man to give them to for deciphering, but you don't have to accept it if you don't want to."

  "No I'll take it, it seems to be written in a very distinct dialect."

  A chime rang in Paul's ears as clear as a clock striking noon.  Paul lifted his head trying to find where the noise came from. 

  It begins, spoke a voice from nowhere. 

  "What begins?", said Paul looking up.

  John looked puzzled, "What?"

  "Didn't you hear the voice?", asked Paul.

  John shook his head. 

  I've got to get him away from this place before it drives him  mad.  He reminds me so much of my father, God rest his soul.  He wasted away before anyone realised it was too late.

  "It must have been some students whispering amongst themselves.", said John offering a solution.

  "But what about the chime, didn't you hear that either?", his mind seemed to be playing tricks on him.

  "I've been hearing voices lately John, I'm worried that I'm losing my mind.  I'm so afraid to tell anyone in case they have me locked up.  The worst part of it all is I don't feel any worse than before.  I'm able to think as clearly as I always was."

  He's growing senile, thought John.

  "You're just tired from working too hard.  It's that manuscript, it takes up a disproportionate amount of your time.", John pointed at the Bible and Paul placed his arm over it protectively.

  "My work is my life now John, I hope you understand that"

  "Yes and life is for living too, don't let it pass you by.  To experience the dawn of a new day is like the beginning of a great work of art, it shouldn't be taken lightly. Think about what I said, I have to go off to give a tutorial now, bye Paul"

  "Oh John, could you do me a favour?"

  "Sure"

  "Could you drive me out to my wife's grave later?"

  "No sweat, I'll pop down to you after dinner"

  "Thanks"

 

  The drive to the graveyard was not a long one but seemed almost like an eternity to Paul.  Each visit was a form of reconciliation and remembrance, a way to honour her memory.   Each journey was designed to make a simple statement, 'I still love you Madge, I haven't forgotten you'. 

 

  The elaborate graves of the rich and the simple crosses of the poor passed by as Paul walked towards his lot ‑ Saint Michael's grave 23.  All these people.  So many.  Our forefathers.  They once held the world in their hands. 

  Don't think so much, Paul.

  Madge's grave, a simple one but well tended. An ash cross to commemorate her life.  The hyacinths, the wild roses and the heart shaped piece of grass.  John walked along‑side Paul quietly and respectfully, this was not an occasion for idle banter.

  The grave was not as it should have been.  The flowers were blackened and burnt.  The stones which formed its periphery were strewn everywhere, and the cross had been tampered with.  A tear formed in Paul's eye when he arrived at the grave.  John was appalled. 

  "Why should anyone do such a thing!  In God's name, why? Ruffians! thugs! villains!"  The beautiful ash cross was inverted.  Bloody hand‑prints on the cross paid testimony to the person who lifted the cross out of the ground and replaced it.  But strangest of all was Madge's date of death ‑ it was burnt off completely.    "This is too much John.", spoke Paul.  "I'd kill whoever did this, I mean that, I really do."

  John tried to comfort the old man remembering that his heart was not good.  "Don't let these sort of people get to you.  Whoever they are, they're low life, scum.  Don't worry, I'll have everything back to the way it was" 

  "Why was this done just to Madge's plot?  It's the Bible, I know it's the Bible.", moaned Paul. 

  Evil begets evil.

  "What Bible?", questioned John.

  "My life's work." 

  The worm begins to turn.

  "You've been working on a Bible".

  Incredulous.

  "But they've already been written."

  "A black Bible for the supernatural and the occult."

  Even more incredulous. 

  "For the occult!"  Senile dementia has finally set in on this poor old man, but what if he's telling the truth?  I love him like my father but this is weird.  All these years and he never told anyone.  What if he really has written something like this.  Who knows what it means. For all I know he might have done this himself. No. Never.  Cast that thought away.  Then again who knows what a senile mind might do. 

  John took out his penknife, up‑ended the cross back into it's correct position.  He scraped off the dried blood over Madge's date of death and etched on the correct year.

  "I'll call somebody out immediately to fix this properly", said John trying to right the wrong that was done to his friend.

  "Thank you John, you do too much for me already.  Will you promise not to tell anyone about the Bible?  I don't know what to do with it yet, I need time to think.  You understand."

  "Yes", replied John.  A Black Bible, what a strange man.

  Paul prayed a quiet agnostic prayer to Madge.  They walked away from the grave baffled and a little scared.  The incident could all be argued away logically but then again so can bumps in the night.

 

  To create something that is intrinsically evil requires that there be complicity.  Nazi Germany never saw itself as evil until it lost.  It's the conquerors privilege to pass sentence.  Is that how people will see me in the future if I publish the Bible? Maybe I am blind to my own ignorance and self‑importance. 

  I will not publish the Bible if I feel I am creating something evil, I swear this on my life Madge.  But how can I know for sure, how can any man know such a thing.  Machiavellian logic dictates that even if it is evil and it educates people from their ignorance then it will be worthwhile.  Then again I'm not Machiavel but just a simple person with work to publish.  Why is it so difficult, I never anticipated these difficulties.  I must have proof that it is not evil. 

  Paul pondered the suicide note that he had been given by John, noting the style and pin‑pointing the origins of the language. He watched in terror as each sentence was translated.

 

  Reawaken Shraklen and let Paul sleep

  Satans sun is rising

  Take the granite steps

  The four horsemen of the apocalypse

  will ride once more

  It begins Paul

  Madge awaits you

  Come join us in the Hampshire

  The worm has turned

  The eye of the world watches

 

  Too many coincidences, too many, thought Paul to himself.  The voices, Madge's desecrated grave, and now this note. Is somebody playing games with me?  Maybe I translated it incorrectly, my mind is going, that's it.  It can't be anything else.  How could this dead person know my name?  How did he know Madge?  Maybe John will know.

 

  "Are you sure you translated it correctly Paul", asked John.

  "Very"

  "Can anyone else verify this"

  "Do you doubt my translation", said Paul insulted.

  "No, no of course not.  But it just doesn't make sense"

  "I know, so, I've made a decision.  I'm going  to postpone publishing  the Bible until I find out what is happening."

  "I'll mind it for you if you want"

  "No, if it's dangerous then you might be hurt.  I don't want to be responsible for that."

  Poor professor, he's finally going over the edge.    "Look Paul, don't you think you're taking this Bible a little bit too seriously?  Give it some time.  Why don't you take a holiday or something?  Get this thing off your mind."

  "You've got to understand John, the four horsemen of the 40

 

  "Paul you've got to give it up.  A man can only take so much of your illusions. I understand that Madge's passing away has put a lot of stress on you but you've got to come to your senses before it's too late."

  "Illusions", sighed Paul to himself.  My mind is just like a clouded liquid to him.  He walked off.

  "Paul where are you going"

  "Away"

  "Where?"

  "New Hampshire"

  "Why New Hampshire in God's name?", John raised both hands in the air.

  "I rang your Uncle in the police department, and he told me that the person who wrote this note came from a small town in New Hampshire.  I have to talk to the people who knew him.  I MUST know if I'm creating something evil, I can ONLY know if I go there.  The town may hold the answers." 

  And may God have mercy on my soul if my fears are justified. 

 

  Chilled, frightened, sickened, my soul needs saving.    But I don't have one, do I? 

  Faiths the key, but where's the lock?

  

  John walked over to him like a troubled adolescent child. "Look Paul, I care for you as if you were my father.  I won't pretend that I understand whats going on.  Maybe you feel you need to go on some quest ‑ I won't be your Sancho Panza.  So just give me your intended address Don Quixote and keep in touch.  How long will you be gone for?".  Paul scribbled the towns name down on a scrap of paper.

  "I'm taking a sick leave of two weeks."

  "I hope you find what you're looking for, whatever it is.  But for Gods sake take care.  Believe it or not, there are still people who care about you."

  Paul smiled gently and shook John's hand.  The was something final about the handshake he didn't like. 

  "Remember I'll be coming after you in two weeks time to bring you home."

  "That won't be necessary", spoke Paul gently.

  "Good"

  "A favour John"

  "How much do you need", replied John predictably.

  "I'll pay you back"

  "Come on, how much Don Quixote?"

  "Four hundred dollars"

  "Here's two hundred and one of my credit cards, it's all I have.  Now take care and remember what I said. Two weeks and I'll be coming"

  "No need. Goodbye then".  They shook hands once more.

  "Pray for me."

  "Yes", John nodded.  He was puzzled by the request but then again he was always puzzled by the absent minded professor.

 

  The greyhound bus station in Boston was a hive of activity;  one of the many human transport hives of the country that is America.  The locker door opened and the Bible, wrapped inconspicuously in a satin black bag, was pushed to the back of the locker.  He also added a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches, just in case.  Two anti‑clockwise turns of the key, click, the money dropped, safe. 

  My life's work, stored in a bus station locker.  How ironic.  Bank safety boxes, very safe ‑ if you've got a bank account.  Why didn't I sell my intellectual ability to the highest bidder when I was young.  Integrity has a price ‑ the price of self‑respect. 

   Paul booked his return bus ticket to Sears Beach, the home town of the originator of the suicide note.  The man's name was Stephan Wang.

 

   "It's quiet up there at this time of year", spoke the bus‑man chewing on a Hershey bar.  Lunch for this bus driver consisted of an assortment of sweet things; a lifelong obsession played out by his near toothless smile.  His briskly finished lunch, closed the doors and pulled gently out of the station.

   "Thinking of touristing it are you mister?  All the young ladies don't arrive until the summer heat."  The bus driver had a dirty knowing grin.

   "I'm on a business trip.", muttered Paul.

   "That's what they all say", joked the bus driver.  His conversational technique disconcerted Paul.  It consisted of keeping one eye on the road  and another on Paul. 

   Why didn't I sit down the back of the bus just like the others.  I'll be stuck in juxtaposed conversation for hours if this keeps up.  Paul came to a compromise, he took out a voluminous edition of National Geographic and flicked through it slowly.  The busman took the hint and went about his job much to Paul's relief. 

 

   They climbed from the urban smog to natural fog.  It licked the windows forming dew‑dropped rivulets.  They were blown away by gusts of rushing wind. The engine hummed away merrily changing notes with the gear‑stick that was the orchestral baton.  The bus was cool, unlike the city buses that got so crowded you tasted your own breath.  It was just like going on summer holidays as a child.  Going to some unknown destination absorbing the atmosphere of the new place.  The wonderment, the people, the food, the weather and all of those subtle differences you could only discover if you were there.    But Paul sighed, this was not going to be any summer holiday.  His chest was bothering him of late and he popped a pill in twentieth century fashion.  Small relief but some nonetheless.  Pain soured the spirit, strength of character was once thing but nagging pain tries ones patience. 

  I'm doing this for you Madge, it's my form of repentance.  It's all I can do, believe me I'm trying to do the right thing.  I'll destroy it if it proves to be evil.  He hated that thought. 

  What if it isevil?   Can I really do it? 

  It would be like killing my own child.

  All it would take would be one match and then it would be over, and so would I,  my life's work gone.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  I have to do it if it is necessary, I have to! 

  Honouring Madge's memory does mean more to me than the Bible.  That's the problem, isn't it.  You don't want to destroy it for yourself but for someone you love.  You don't care how evil it is yourself, you'd publish it if Madge were still alive.  Yes, you would.  But now that's she's gone you feel guilty.  If you destroy it you cleanse your guilt otherwise you have it to publish.  You can't lose can you?  This journey is just a farce to relieve you of your guilt, isn't it?  Your two week sabbatical.  And in years to come they'll talk about the conflict you had in publishing.  It'll be part of the myth, the history of the Bible. 

  You make me sick, spoke his conscience.

  No, it's not like that at all.  What about the suicide note, the voices, the burnt cross?  They were no imaginations.  But were they?  I translated the note, I could have burnt the cross myself, I could be making the voices in my own head. 

  I had such a brilliant mind.  That was so long ago.  I miss those days, I wish that I could have been more rebellious.  I was the model student ‑ I did what I was told, worked hard, and kept my head down.  If only I had.... No, don't think such thoughts they're self‑ defeating.  You've lost the battle without fighting it thinking that way.  I miss my youth, I miss you Madge.  A small indiscernable tear formed in the edge of his eye.  He blinked.  Memories were such sweet pain.

 

  "Next stop, Sears Beach", the busdrivers mouth was full of Hershey bar as he chewed the day away sweetly.  Paul got out of his seat and a young man helped him take down his bags.  It's at times such as this he really felt his age.

  "Enjoy yourself mister",spoke the bus driver.  He winked and laughed at him in his own suggestive way.

  "Have a nice business trip."  He swallowed the piece of bar he was eating and the bus pulled off into the distance. 

  The day was dusking and the town surrounded him.  The buildings watched him.  They chattered amongst themselves. 

  A stranger look, ooh a stranger.  How nice!

  Paul laughed to himself, in matter a fact it was really nothing more than a gathering of plain wooden buildings.  Very ordinary and very boring.  Most of the shops, amusement arcades and fast food shops were closed until the summer season.  Paul looked at the shop he had been dropped off in front of.  It was called the Silvermoon Trading Post.  The shop proffered a myriad of useless but brightly coloured tourist gifts.  A plastic dummy dressed up in Indian clothes welcomed the stranger.  The shop was marketing at it's most banal.  

  A middle aged man, lightly built with grey hair came out of the shop. 

  "Hello Paul we've been expecting you,  I'm Jack Danby, the local proprietor and proud owner of this shop, or should I say trading post.", he offered his hand in a warm welcome and was smiling. 

  Paul was shocked to the ground he was standing on.  There was a baffled look on Paul's face.  How did they know who I am.  They expected me.  Quick, destroy the Bible!  Run away and burn it!

  "John Stiowisky told us you'd be coming?", the smile lessened on the Jack's face fearing he had picked the wrong man. 

  Paul relaxed.  Of course! John. I gave him the address.  Typical, I'm always jumping to rash conclusions.

  "Yes, of course. How do you do.  I am Paul Bondwell."  He shook the man's hand.  Jack looked plainly relieved.

  "I'll show you to your room first and then I'll give you a guided tour of our small but charming town."  He was a smooth talker and no doubt well used to tourist talk.   

  They went round the side of the trading post and entered a kitchenette.  Walking up a set of steep stairs the living room appeared.  It was situated directly over the trading post. Dim light, warm but comfortable.  Behind them lay the hallway leading out of the dining area.  The stairs had an electronic motorised chair which Paul noticed.  Jack noticed Paul's curious glances.

  "Oh, the chair is for my father.  He's old and not very well these days.  You can use it if you want.", said Jack humorously.

  They're putting me into an old folks home! 

  "There are two spare rooms, take any one you want.  You're very lucky you came up before the summer season, space is at a premium during the high season.  We normally take in lodgers here to work in the towns summertime shops and amusements."

   Paul dropped his bags in his room, it was growing dark and he was starving.

  "I guess you're hungry after your long drive?"

  "Yes, very"

  "Well I've just the place for you,  Heller's bar.  It doubles as a bar cum restaurant at this time of the year.  And if I might say so myself the food is delicious."

  More tourist talk, thought Paul.  He probably owns it.

 

  Heller's bar was a typical American bar, short on atmosphere and strong on short hot soul‑slapping shots.  Chasers mingled with the murmuring occupants spirits.  A couple of people turned around curiously when Paul entered with Jack, only to turn back to their drinks.

  Paul's first impression was the down‑beat nature of the town, boring to be blunt.  It was no wonder that people didn't come up here in the spring.

  Jack ordered them the Heller's Special meal; a side salad serving, a generous serving of fried potato skins and an assortment of fried meats.  Twenty five minutes to prepare and time for a quick drink beforehand.

  "In the Winter the snow comes up to the roof.  The city folk can't hack it then.  They retreat to their off‑season homes.  We stay up here through good times and bad."  Jack sounded proud of the fact.  "Many of the people you see in this bar are direct descendants of the original settlers.  We're bound to this land heart and soul." 

  Paul was surprised by Jack openness to him.  Maybe it was just the way people were up here. Or maybe Jack like all business men wanted to rub him down to get him to stay longer and spend more money.  Maybe not.

  "They call us the skeleton crew", said Jack waxing humorously.

  "Do you have a phone nearby?", inquired Paul.

  "Yes, just at the side of the bar there.  See it?"

  Paul nodded, he wanted to thank John for arranging everything.

  He dialled the operator, placed the loose change in the machine and heard John's home phone ring. Click. The receiver was picked up by his girlfriend.

  John came to the phone.

  "John, this is Paul.  Have I caught you at a bad time?"

  "No, no Paul"

  "I'd like to thank you for getting my accommodation together that's all."

  "Sure, no problem.  How is Sears beach?"

  "I've only just arrived, it's quiet.  Unimposing"

  "So have you met any spooks yet?  Ghoulish monsters, or creatures of the twighlight hours?", joked John.

  "No", responded Paul feeling rather silly.

  "Better get ready for 'I told you so' when you come back."

  Paul glanced over to the table and saw a young barmaid put the food on the table.  She turned around. He felt dizzy, his pulse raced, the ground spun from under him. 

  "My God, my God. It can't be."

  "Paul what is it? What's wrong? Paul!"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you", spoke Paul.

  "I've got to go now John,  Goodbye."

  "No Paul,  Don't go. Talk to m.."  He put the phone down entranced by the young woman who was clearing the tables.  It was Madge as a young woman, her hair was the same.  Sandy Brown and curly, shoulder length.  Soft brown intelligent eyes.  Peach skin and an irresistible face.  Angelic and loving. 

  You've come back to me, I always knew you would, I always hoped you could.  He sat down beside Jack Danby completely ignoring the food in front of him.  Every ounce of his attention was focused on the beautiful young woman who was serving.

  "That's Christina", murmured Jack trying not to embarrass Paul. 

  "She reminds me of a lot of my wife when she was young."  Paul was being modest, she was identical in almost every facet.  Unbelievable, incredible.  And then the line of the suicide note came to him 'Madge awaits you'.  Maybe she was his reward for his work for the devil.  She was too beautiful to be the work of anything evil. 

 

  The Devil looks after his own.

Chapter 3

Madge

 

  She's so perfect, just like the first day I met her, thought Paul entranced by the young girl.   God, how I loved her. 

  "How old is she?", asked Paul admiring her at a distance.

  "Twenty two, as far as we know. Eighteen years ago she wandered into town as a young child with nothing more than a summer dress and a cheap doll.  The doctor said she was about four, as far as he could tell anyway, so I guess that would make her twenty two.  A local family adopted her and brought her up.  Nobody ever came for her, it's rumoured that she was the unwanted child of a teenage mother.", he sipped gently on his drink.  "Last year at the height of the summer season a group of bikers rode into town.  They harassed her and followed her home, normally they keep to themselves.  According to the police the bikers broke into the house and set it on fire.  They were never absolutely sure that it was the bikers because they most of them were gone in the morning.  Her step parents were killed in the blaze, but she escaped miraculously without a scratch.  Whoever did it never touched her, but she never spoke  since that day.  It's like she relives it in her eyes.  Mind you she does smile sometime at times of great celebration like halloween.  Many of the local men have tried to woo her with their charm but all have failed miserably."

  Just like Madge before I met her, thought Paul.

  "I'll introduce you after we eat"

  "I would like that"

  Christina had all the charm of a young girl but the body language of a sensual woman.  Jack and Paul approached her.

  "Christina?", said Jack.  She turned around. "I'd like you to meet Paul, he's new in town"

  She looked at Paul and seemed to recognise him immediately.  She looked frightened at first but Paul smiled and she relaxed.  Her mouth opened and she tried to utter something, it was laboured.  Jack was openly surprised that she was trying to talk to Paul. Such a rare occurrence.

  "Sh‑Shra‑", she uttered but the word got no further.

  Paul finished off the word, "Shraklen?", it was the name given to him in the suicide note.

  She smiled but tears formed in her eyes, touching the side of his face gently with her hands.  She nodded in confirmation.

  "What's going on here Paul, I thought you said you didn't know this girl!", demanded Jack who was becoming increasingly flustered.

  "I don't", replied Paul smiling at Christina almost having a complete understanding of her feelings.  It was unnatural.

  "What's that word 'Shraklen' mean ?", questioned Jack.

  "I haven't been fully honest with you Jack, I think it's time."  Paul sat back down at the table with Jack and quietly explained the case of the strange suicide note and the deformation of his wife's grave.  He gave Jack the suicide note of Stephan Wang.

  "Did you know him?", asked Paul.

  "Well, I don't think anybody in town knew him.  He was deep, if you know what I mean.  He was rumoured to be a devil worshipper." Jacks voice became noticeably quieter.

  "Can we talk about this outside?", Jack was growing jittery.

  "Yes, I understand", Paul walked over to Christina "Can we go for a walk later. I'd like to talk to you, Mad.., eh Christina"  She nodded and showed him ten fingers.  "Ten o'clock", interpreted Paul and he left.

  Outside, Jack was the first to speak, "I wasn't completely honest with you either Paul, this town does have it's own private secrets.  The woodland hills house devil worshipper rites every year.  It's a tradition amongst the people to join, there are privileges and rites, lucid sexual rites to be precise.  It's very enticing to the young people, and once you're in it's a lifelong service.  Our ancestors in a lot of cases were black witches so it's traditional.  I don't expect you to understand being an outsider, but when you grow up in a closed community such as this, well lets just say it's different.  I don't have anything to do with these people, it's bad for decent God‑fearing people not to mention business.  People have tried to stop them and there have been nasty accidents, you understand.  Nobody knows exactly who runs it and that's scary.  I don't know what to make of this note to be truthful.  Are you telling me it was addressed to you ‑ Shraklen.  That's their name for you?"

  Paul nodded,  "I've been working on a piece of literature", Paul was as evasive as possible,"and it seems to be the key."

  "I'm sorry that you had to see the nasty side of our town.  It's really a beautiful place.  I'll refund you if you want."

  "No, I'd like to stay a small while longer."  Inside he longed for Christina.  He'd come too far to just leave her.

 

  At ten o'clock Christina was waiting for him outside Heller's bar.  She was dressed in an airy dress, perfumed like a flower and smiling beautifully. 

  "You look very beautiful in the moonlight", spoke Paul unable to hold his feelings for her.  She grabbed his hand and proceeded to take him down the main road.  Taking a right at the end of town they walked along a quiet dirt track that led into the woods.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  She placed her finger over his lips.

  "O.K. no questions", he replied.  She kissed him on the cheek and dragged him further into the undergrowth.  The incline grew steeper and his chest began to hurt.  He pulled her to a stop and took a pill for his heart complaint. 

  "I'm sorry Christina but I'm not as young as I once was"  She sat beside him on some dry brown ferns and stroked his hair.  She treated him as thought she'd known him all her life.

  "The minute I saw you I fell in love with you Christina.  Can you understand that?"  She nodded surprising him.

  "To be blunt, I'm an old man and you remind me of my wife.  It hurts to see you, and yet it doesn't."

  She stood up and dragged him onto his feet. 

  "You're too energetic for me."