Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

Teddy jumped up with a frightened yelp, running to the closed door, fumbling with the doorknob in an attempt to escape.

“Don’t be afraid, son,” Deacon called to his child. “It just takes some time to get used to.”

He was trying to absorb the holy fire back into his new form, but succeeded only in making it worse. The flames burned furiously, reducing objects in the room to blackened ash in a matter of seconds. Deacon imagined the fire being used on the flesh of his enemies and wondered if there was a way to slow it down.

To prolong the agony.

That would be a wonderful thing.

The bedroom door flew open, slamming against the plaster wall already cracked by the passage of the home from earth to the shadowy realm. There was no talking to the boy in his current state, and Deacon allowed him to scamper off. There were far more important things to concern himself with at the moment.

He had to start thinking about his future and the future of the world. Not the world outside his window, but the world he had fled to escape his betrayers.

Deacon made his body glow like the sun, casting his holy light from the dingy windows to chase away the darkness-and anything that might be hiding within it.

Someone cleared his throat behind him, and Deacon slowly turned toward the sound.

Scrimshaw stood just inside the doorway.

“Scrimshaw,” Deacon said, and thrust out his arms for the golem to admire. “What do you think?”

“Quite impressive, sir,” the artificial man said. “I wanted to let you know that we’ve boarded up just about all of the broken windows, and reset the alarms. I’m waiting for a work crew to let me know how long it will be before the fence is-”

“Don’t bother,” Deacon interrupted his faithful servant.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I said, don’t bother,” Deacon repeated. He slowly turned back to the bedroom window, allowing the fire that radiated from his body to grow all the brighter. “We’re not staying here.”

“Sir?” Scrimshaw questioned.

“You heard me,” Deacon said testily, crimping his annoyance, realizing that he must be above such emotions if he were to attain his new stature. “We’re leaving this place.”

“Leaving?”

Deacon looked to his servant. “How am I to attain godhood and save humanity from the hidden horrors of the supernatural if I remain in this desolate place?” he asked.

Scrimshaw, smart enough to know that it wasn’t a true question, didn’t answer.

“And besides,” Deacon added with a sly smile. “Now that I have all of this power, I can finally take my revenge on those who wronged me.”

“Shall I pack your bags, sir?” Scrimshaw asked, ever the faithful servant.

Deacon began to laugh again, amused by his servant’s naivete.

“No need for that,” he said, turning his attention back to the window and the fleeting darkness outside.

“I brought it all here, and I intend to take it all back.”

Angus Heath could not sleep, and was tired of hearing about the little miracle girl who was waiting to deliver a message from God to the world.

The sorcerer sneered as he quietly passed the television reporting yet another story of the child and her promise. It was all bullshit as far as he was concerned. The Creator…God…or whatever it was being called now had lost interest in its earthly creations a long, long time ago, and the only message that Heath could imagine the little girl delivering was that the human race was a total disappointment.

Francis was deep in some sort of trancelike state that was as close to sleep as a fallen angel could manage, while the other-Remy was what Francis had called him-was still recovering from the injuries he had sustained in the place of shadows.

But it was neither of the two divine beings that interested him at the moment; it was the girl.

Angus moved around the bed to where she lay. The bathroom light had been left on, the door partially closed, shedding some light in the rented room.

Light from which he could check on his suspicions.

The girl had been hurt pretty badly, looking as though she had been mauled by some kind of animal. He had cleaned the wounds and bandaged them the best he could while Francis fretted over his unconscious friend.

That had been when he started to suspect that there was more to this young woman than initially met the eye.

Angus hovered over her as she slept, angling his body in such a way so as not to block the light leaking from the bathroom. Carefully, he reached out to peel back the girl’s covers. Her shirt was still unbuttoned, exposing her young flesh and the heavy bandages he had placed upon her wounds.

He could not deny the fact that he felt the pangs of hunger emerging, but doubted he would receive much in the way of sustenance from this one if his suspicions were correct.

Angus first pulled away a piece of the tape and, when he saw that his touch did not disturb her slumber, lifted the bandage to get a better look at the wound. It had already started to heal, far faster than it should have been able to. He leaned in closer and stuck his finger into the healing gash, attempting to pull the flesh apart to see what secrets lay beneath.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asked an angry voice, and he felt the cold barrel of a pistol against the back of his head.

Angus pulled his fingers away and froze.

“I’m checking something.”

“Looked a little nastier than that to me,” Francis said. “Planning an unauthorized midnight snack, perhaps?” the fallen angel suggested.

The sorcerer sighed. “If I’d planned to do that, I could have just kissed her.”

“What were you checking?”

Angus felt the pressure on the back of his head ease, and he turned to face Francis. “I was checking to see if she’s real.”

Francis looked at him, head cocked to one side. “Excuse me?”

“As I tended her wounds, I got a sense that maybe she isn’t as human as she appears to be.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“Perhaps, but that still doesn’t explain the strange aura I’m sensing.”

“Strange aura,” Francis repeated. “That pretty much says it all.”

Angus couldn’t stand it any longer; he needed to be vindicated. He turned again to the girl and reached out, plunging his fingers into the exposed stomach wound and ripping a portion of the flesh away.

Francis reacted as Angus thought he might, pistol-whipping him and throwing him to the floor.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” the angel said, going to the girl’s side but stopping cold when he saw what had been revealed.

“Not what you expected to see, is it?” Angus asked, rubbing the sore spot at the back of his head.

“That’s not what I think it is…is it?” Francis asked, moving in for a closer look.

“All depends on what you thought you might see,” Angus said, joining him at the bedside. “If you thought you’d see bloody flesh and exposed muscle, no, not at all.” He stared at the open wound and the damp gray material that lay beneath it. “But if you expected to find clay, then we were both right.”

“It isn’t her,” Francis said, eyes darting to the unconscious Remy on the bed.

“No, it isn’t,” Angus agreed. “She’s a golem…a very advanced golem, but a golem nonetheless.”

“Then where’s the real Ashley?” Francis asked, worry in his voice.

Angus looked over to the closet door, remembering the thick wall of shadow that had appeared there.

“Still over there, I’d imagine.”

Never talk to strangers.

Ashley heard her mother’s voice over and over again, echoing inside her skull, growing louder with every utterance until she felt as though she might scream until her throat bled.