Letting the Demons Out Read online

  LETTING THE DEMONS OUT

  by

  Ray Wallace

  LETTING THE DEMONS OUT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This work, including all characters, names, and places:

  Copyright 2012 Ray Wallace. All rights reserved.

  Cover art: Neil Jackson

  Print ISBN: 978-1479252855

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of both the publisher and author.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  “One of the Six" The Chiaroscuro (1998) Whispers From the Shattered Forum (1999)

  “The Thing Within” Welcome to Nod (1999)

  “Who’s Laughing Now?” Delirium (2001) Trip the Light Horrific (2004)

  “The Nameless” The Blackest Death Vol. 1 (2003)

  “Letting the Demons Out” 13 Stories (2003)

  “Test Run” THWN Presents: New Voices in Horror (2003)

  “It Came From the Swimming Pool” Monster’s Ink (2003)

  “Keepsake (A Tale of the Nameless)” The Blackest Death Vol. 2 (2004)

  “A Dream of an Endless Highway” Chimeraworld #4 (2006)

  The Nameless (Black Death Books, 2009)

  - ONE OF THE SIX -

  Author's note: This is the story that started it all. Right around the turn of the millennium I stumbled across a then fledgling website called The Chiaroscuro. After joining, the site's creator, Brett Savory, informed me that they were having a fiction contest and that if I had a story to enter then I should think about doing so. It just so happened that I did, a Lovecraft inspired piece (is there a horror writer alive who hasn't gone through a Lovecraft phase?) entitled "One of the Six" and I thought it was pretty good. Strange, terrible gods. A hideous monster. And an ending sure to knock the readers' socks off. What wasn't there to like? But at that point I had never published anything. Hell, "One of the Six" was probably only the third or fourth story I had ever actually completed. And the judges of the contest included none other than Brian Hodge. This was the Big Time, as far as I was concerned. Sure, I'd enter, but I wasn't really expecting a whole lot. A few weeks passed and I was informed that my story had been selected for the final round of judging. This alone was enough to make me very happy. Then another week or so went by and I was informed that I had actually won the contest! I've published plenty of other stories since then and even a few novels but I have to say that, so far, this still has to be the best moment I've had as a writer. Because that was the moment I realized that, hey, maybe I actually had a knack for this writing thing after all...

  *

  Let me preface this, the last story I will ever convey to my loyal readers, by saying that I do not write this of my own free will. He - who shall remain nameless, for the time being - is making me do this. So please forgive me for the horror I am about to inflict on you and the many others who are bound to read this. I have no choice in the matter, as you will soon come to understand.

  Where to start... where to start... Well, I'd better just get to the point since I've been told that I haven't much time.

  I am a man, nothing more, in his later years, who has been blessed with the good fortune of being able to write - one of the few passions of mine - for a living. I also enjoy the occasional drink and a good cigarette, both of which may have contributed to my high blood pressure; then again, they may not have. I am not the most trusting of men and place the word of my doctor right up there with that of the common burglar. But, simply to appease the white-jacketed fellow, if nothing more, I finally took his advice about a year back and began taking walks during the evening, as a form of exercise. And much to my surprise, I actually did start to feel better, and my blood pressure did come down a little.

  So for the past year, I would write in the morning and afternoon, have a nice supper then walk the two-and-a-half miles to the university library and spend some time reading or researching a particular idea I may have had for a story, like the one I had recently published about the synaesthetic serial killer - my wife would have loved that one, may she rest in peace.

  I would enjoy telling you of my love for that library, of being surrounded by so many works of literature, by the smell of so many books. Such a place is Heaven on Earth for me. But, alas, time is of the essence.

  One evening, I found myself deep in the library's farthest reaches, in the "occult" section. I was working on a story about a man obsessed with the ideas of Aleister Crowley and so found myself immersed in the strange concepts of that mad "magician." Hours I spent there, engrossed by the man's ideas, so alien to my own. When the lights started to go down within the building, one of the librarians - an attractive young woman, presumably a student at the university - told me that she was sorry, but the library was now closed.

  "No need to apologize, my dear," I said and graced her with the grin that stole my wife's heart so many years ago. "Time waits for no man." As I placed the Crowley book back in its space upon the shelf, I noticed the volume that stood next to it which had somehow escaped my attention earlier. Its spine was pure black, not a letter on it. No title, no publishing house. Nothing. Intrigued, I grabbed the ebony covered book and decided to check it out of the library, so that I might peruse it at home.

  I brought the volume to the front counter where it was discovered that no check-out card was contained within. A bit bewildered, the head librarian created a card out of a torn sheet of paper so that some record of the book would exist and then I was allowed to leave with it in my possession.

  Oh, that things could have worked out differently. But I am a strong believer in fate and feel that, for whatever unfathomable reason, I was meant to find that black book, that I was meant to unleash such profound horror upon the world.

  That night I immersed myself within the book's bizarre writings...

  A brief introduction informed the reader that the text was an English translation of passages written in Hebrew many centuries ago. The early Christians considered the writings blasphemous and so had searched far and wide for every existing copy, had burned each one upon discovery until they were certain that none remained. But, obviously, at least one copy had survived.

  Intrigued, I read on, was fascinated by the tales of strange and hideous "gods" which I had never encountered before in all my readings. There was Rozen-Ket, thousand faced ruler of the gods, who had never been known to speak since all of his mouths had, at some point, by unknown and unimaginable powers, been sewn shut. And there was Lur-Shee-Inin, "she of the infinite wombs," who was Rozen-Ket's wife and had given birth to the universe and all the creatures found within.

  Then there were the lesser gods:

  I-Ki, the god of war, who could breathe fire and had swords growing from the ends of his six arms. Ela-Nee-Nee was the goddess of fertility. She had no legs and "breasts the size of mountains," was always in a state of orgasmic ecstasy. Kurekee was the storm god who's eyes had been stolen and so he wept continuously in remembrance of the time when he could see.

  Other gods there were, each as outlandish as the next. Many tales were related about these divine beings including a story which told of the rape of Lur-Shee-Inin and the subsequent birth of mankind. Throughout the rest of the volume, the gods mostly spent their time either fighting over, aiding, or tormenting "the weak, mortal race." When at last I came to the final chapter, I read of the war god I-Ki's jealousy and general hatred for hum
anity and how he wished to destroy it.

  According to the book, I-Ki descended to Earth and captured six men, took them through the "cold reaches of space" to a planet far from our own, a planet that makes the Hell of Christianity look like a summer resort. There he left them for a hundred years and when he returned they were changed into "vile creatures who would only find joy through the pain and suffering of others." Then I-Ki returned with them and unleashed them upon the peoples of the Earth.

  What horrors the Six perpetrated against mankind. They tortured and slaughtered "man and woman, mother and babe by the thousands," until "whole cities lay empty and silent except for the cries of the carrion eaters."

  Lur-Shee-Inin was enraged, as were many of the other gods, and a great war ensued. The Earth became a battlefield and I-Ki, god of war, found himself outnumbered and was eventually defeated. The conflict showed the gods that they must distance themselves from the everyday affairs of mankind. After I-Ki was bound and buried within the Earth where he was to be imprisoned for ten thousand years, the other gods "turned their eyes to other parts of the universe."

  As for the Six? They were taken back to the planet where I-Ki had turned them into the inhuman monsters they had become. Unbeknownst to the other gods, however, I-Ki had managed one last act of revenge. In the final days of the war, knowing that defeat was imminent, he had called the Six to him and "anointed each with a name, used the tip of a sword-arm to set the names in stone." And he had whispered magic into each name, so that they could be used to call one of his "blasphemous creations" to the "Earthly realm."

  The last page of the book listed the names of the Six and informed the reader that he would find himself preoccupied with one of the names, that he would be unable to exorcise it from his thoughts until "the bearer of the name appears to visit I-Ki's vengeance upon the summoner."

  I closed the black volume and looked at the clock on the wall: 3:37 A.M. I had sat there in my study for nearly eight hours and read the entire book. My conclusion? That it was an obvious work of fiction penned by a somewhat demented mind. Credit to the author, though, as the the book had managed to unsettle me, made me wonder how well I might sleep through what little of the night remained. I stood, my back aching, and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, removed a bottle of brandy and a glass, poured myself a shot. The liquor was warm and comforting, went straight to my head. I yawned deeply and smiled, knowing that sleep would come. Not long after, I was in my bed visiting dreamworlds filled with strange gods and ancient peoples...

  Well, he who is making me write this tale has informed me that I haven't much time, and I believe him. Of course, I am trying to make this story as lengthy as possible for when it ends...

  But, I digress.

  The next morning I awoke and immediately found myself fixating upon some nonsense word that, at first, meant nothing to me whatsoever. I was confused, wondering at the word's origin, then I had to smile in appreciation as I realized that the writer's trick had worked, that the word was indeed one of the names from the list I had read at the back of that black book, that I was unable to shake the name from my thoughts. Throughout the rest of the day, I found myself constantly thinking about the book and especially the name that seemed somehow branded upon the contours of my brain.

  That night, I made my usual trip over to the college library and returned the book, felt strangely relieved as I handed it over to the librarian.

  "How was it?" she asked, indicating the ebony volume.

  "I found it... interesting," I replied with a smile - a smile that I, for some odd reason, did not feel.

  Then I left the library and began the journey home. A breeze picked up along the way and I pulled my jacket tightly about me feeling suddenly cold, in more than a physical sense, I might add. Dusk was fast approaching and I felt an irrational touch of dread as I watched the sun settle inch by inch below the horizon. I quickened my pace, hoping to reach the protective confines of my home before total darkness fell, knowing that there was no way I could. The familiar path that I took seemed fraught with peril as though the ground might open up at any moment and swallow me whole, or the trees might reach out and grab me with gnarled, wooden fingers, pull me apart so that each may have a morsel. I became convinced that somebody, that something was following me, drawing nearer with each old man's footstep that I took. I kept looking behind me all the while telling myself that I was being silly, that it was all in my head, my overactive imagination playing tricks on me. But it was hard to hear the words of this rational argument with the unbidden name of I-Ki's dreaded minion echoing so loudly in my head.

  Darkness fell as I reached the street where I lived. I moved faster still, knowing that I was almost home. Breathing heavily and in a near panic, I was afraid to look back, afraid of what I'd see there. My house was located all the way at the end of the street on a large piece of property which kept me comfortably isolated from the neighbors. It had never seemed so far away.

  Then, like a beacon, the welcoming light of my front porch came into view. The last, small part of my journey home had the quality of a dream, as if I were running in slow motion and, no matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to reach that one place on Earth I considered a safe haven.

  An eternity later, I was there.

  Stumbling up the steps, gasping for air, I pulled the key ring from my pocket, fumbled for the one that would unlock the front door.

  Now is when I get it, spoke the writer's voice inside me. Now is when they always get it, when they are so close to safety.

  Get it from who? Or what? But I knew. In my terror I knew! For all the while the name was there, pervading my thoughts, calling out through the cold reaches of space to a monster who was once a man, summoning him to enact the vengeance of a forgotten god!

  I found the key. Reached for the lock. Then stopped, unable to move, frozen where I stood.

  I was not alone.

  From directly behind me, I heard laughter - a deep, inhuman sound, but laughter nonetheless.

  Then the smell hit me. It was the odor of rotting flesh, of sun-ripened viscera, of spoiled blood.

  I nearly gagged.

  "Turn around." The voice, as deep as the laughter, somehow filled with equal parts hatred and joy, compelled me, left me with no choice but to obey its command. "Look upon the one whom you have summoned."

  God help me, I did turn around. And my eyes were filled with the horror that stood there, that had no place in the mundane, rational world, that could only have existed within the realms of a dream, within the darkest of nightmares.

  He stood before me, seven feet in height, stared down at me with eyes of blackest night set in a face of hideous design. His skin was severely burned, scarred and blistered, in places seared all the way through so that the charred bones beneath were visible. His nose and ears appeared to have melted away, and when he smiled I could see that his rotting teeth were filed to points, like those of a shark. A tattered robe hung upon his body, much of which was available for scrutiny. It seemed that whatever fire had consumed his head had also done its work on the rest of him. He was skeleton-thin with several broken ribs jutting out at obscene angles through his ruined flesh. And in place of hands he had two long hooks made of bone, chipped and scratched along their lengths, undoubtedly put to violent use many times before.

  Yes, a living nightmare, there, before me.

  A nightmare that I had called from the depths of space.

  Without a word that foul servant lifted an arm and placed one of those hooked hands on top of my head. I could not move, could only stand there, immobilized in my terror. With that touch I literally saw my life, from earliest childhood until this day, flash before my eyes, and I knew that, somehow, he was reading my thoughts, was watching my life in fast-forward with me.

  When the whole of my existence had played itself out - how long this took, I couldn't say; probably only a couple of minutes - he broke contact with me then smiled and said, "A squire. A very
popular squire, read by many. How fortunate."

  For a moment, a part of me wondered how this ancient creature could speak my language so fluently before the logical part of my being argued that he was obviously possessed with powers well beyond my ability to comprehend.

  It was at this point that my mind overloaded, that my aged will gave out and I fainted away...

  *

  When I awoke, I found myself propped up in my writing chair in the study. Had it all been a dream? A figment of my sometimes twisted imagination? Had I drifted off while immersed in some dreadful tale upon which I'd been working? It had been known to happen before. I could only pray that it had happened again.

  Then I became aware of the smell pervading the room and I knew that it hadn't been a dream after all. By what means had I been brought here? Did the monster pick me up with those vile hooks, carry me in those tortured, emaciated appendages? The very thought sickened me to the center of my being. And why had I been brought here? For what purpose?

  Then he told me, and I began to weep for the first time since my beloved's funeral nearly five years earlier.

  "You are going to write your final story," he said while standing behind me. "In it you will tell of your discovery of the black book, and of the creation of the universe. You will tell of my lord, I-Ki, and of the Six, and of how I was summoned. And at the end you will write the most important part of all: my name and only my name. For then I alone will be summoned by those unfortunate enough to read it. I alone will enact the vengeance of my lord and master until the end of his imprisonment. On that day he will be free to walk the Earth and unleash his wrath once again upon mankind. And he will have me to thank for enacting his vengeance in his absence."

  He fell silent. All I could do was sit there and stare at the old typewriter that I used to write all of my stories, unable to think, not knowing how to begin this particular tale or if I should begin at all.