Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

“The little girl,” she said.

“I have no idea what you’re…”

“On the news,” Linda said groggily, and Remy looked at the television to see that the local news was on, and there was, in fact, a little girl on the screen.

The child, no older than six or seven, lay in her bed surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals. People stood around her as reporters yelled out questions and pictures flashed.

“What’s her story?” Remy asked.

“Guess she’s been in a coma for a few years-some kind of accident. They never expected her to wake up.”

Linda stretched, her arms reaching up over her head as she yawned.

“And now she’s awake,” Remy said, still watching the TV. The cameras pulled in close to the child’s face as she peeked out from beneath her covers. There was something haunting about her eyes.

“Awake and talking about all kinds of stuff.”

“All kinds of stuff?”

“Yeah, religious stuff. She says she has a message from God.”

The station cut to a commercial break, leaving a bad taste in Remy’s mouth. He had little patience for supposed prophets proclaiming a direct line to Heaven.

“What’s the message?” he asked, trying to hide his distaste.

“No idea,” Linda said, sliding to the other side of the couch for her wineglass atop a side table. “She says He hasn’t told her yet, that it isn’t time or the world isn’t ready, or something like that.”

Remy doubted very much that the child was responsible for the proclamation, guessing that an ambitious family member was likely to blame. He wondered how long it would be before they were selling vials of the little girl’s tears and displaying her features on special healing pillowcases or some such nonsense.

“I find it very sad,” Linda was saying as she sipped the last of the wine from her glass. “A sick child being exploited like that.”

The Seraphim stirred in agreement. Ever since the earth had been saved from the Apocalypse, more and more of these diviners, seers, and soothsayers had been crawling out of the woodwork with some vision of the future. The world was indeed in flux, but Remy seriously doubted that any of these people had the inside track on anything worth paying attention to.

Linda set down her empty glass and yawned loudly. Marlowe sat up and yawned, as well, as if in solidarity.

“Sleepy?” Remy asked her.

“Yeah,” she answered with a nod. “You two want to stay over?”

“Nah.” Remy stood. “I want to get to the office early tomorrow, and you’re a very bad influence on my work ethic.”

“Your loss,” she said, shrugging. “But since I’m working both lunch and dinner shifts, we probably won’t see each other tomorrow.”

Linda was a waitress at Piazza, a restaurant on the trendy Newbury Street. She also attended school, working toward her teaching degree. Sometimes it was a bit tough to see each other.

“See what a bad influence you are? I’m not even out of your apartment, and already you’re working your wiles on me,” Remy said as he bent toward her.

He kissed her noisily on the lips and she reached up, gently holding the back of his head, making him kiss her more.

Bad influence or not.

Remy didn’t mind in the least.

The Catskill Mountains

The Deacon Estate

August 8, 1945

Deacon had no idea if his mad plan would work.

He had learned from a trusted, high-ranking source in the Pentagon where the first of the bombs was to be dropped, and had prepared to collect the energies that would be released when that bomb detonated.

Using less-than-legal channels, he had managed to dispatch the most sophisticated golem he had ever created to the island of Japan, where it traveled to the target city to await the inevitable. This golem would be the receiver for the death energies, collecting the vast amounts of power and transmitting it back to the receiver in the Catskills and into the members of the cabal.

At least, that was the plan. Whether or not it worked had yet to be determined.

Hundreds of thousands of people had died when the atomic bomb exploded over Hiroshima, and as their life energies were transferred to Deacon, he experienced the life of each and every one of them. A mad rush of images, feelings, and sensations poured into him, threatening to drown him in their intensity.

He awakened with the screams of thousands upon his lips. He saw as they saw, their final memory of the fiery conflagration burned into his own.

Quickly he touched his own flesh, needing to prove to himself that he had not been reduced to ash. His flesh was damp with sweat, but it also tingled with vitality.

He sat up and held his hands out before him, flexing his fingers, feeling none of the aching pain that he’d been suffering. He felt his heart begin to beat faster, a pleasurable rush of blood to his head.

Did it work?

Deacon threw back the covers, exposing his nakedness. There was something different…the way he felt.

I think it did.

He swung his bare feet over the edge of the bed and touched the cold hardwood of the floor. Then he stood, experiencing a moment of stiffness as he lurched across the bedroom to his wife’s vanity. Deacon’s eyes widened as he caught his image in the large mirror that hung above it.

It was as if the hands of time had been turned back and he was looking at a photograph of himself from when he was barely in his twenties.

“It did work,” he whispered with wonder, bringing his fingers to his face to touch the healthy, taut flesh no longer ravaged by the passage of time and the use of corrosive magicks.

He smiled a perfect, healthy smile and stepped back to admire his youthful body.

“It worked!” he yelled, pointing at his magnificent reflection. It was then that he remembered the others…the cabal. If it had worked for him, then…

He bolted toward the door, remembering his nudity only as his strong, healthy hands closed on the crystal knob. He went to his wardrobe and removed a silk dressing gown, marveling at the sensation of the material on his rejuvenated flesh.

Then he dashed to the door and threw it open, tying the belt around his waist as he stepped out into the hall.

“It worked!” he bellowed once again with a laugh as he proceeded down the darkened hallway toward the stairs.

It was there that he discovered the first of his golems. It was one of his earlier, less-human-appearing designs, lying on the stairs on its stomach, as if it had fallen while ascending and was unable to rise.

Still barefooted, Deacon started down the steps past the prone form, noticing the circular burn mark in the center of its back. His mind raced. He quickened his pace to the lobby, where more of his creations lay, limbs akimbo, their artificial lives stolen from them.

Deacon immediately thought of his wife and son. “Veronica!” he cried, stepping over a fallen golem. “Teddy!”

The large house was eerily still as he rushed through the many rooms, finding more of his inhuman servants struck down by some destructive magickal force.

Were we attacked by the forces we plan to confront with our newly acquired life? he wondered as he passed through the kitchen and headed down another winding set of stairs toward his study.

“Veronica!” he called out again, moving down the corridor to the heavy wooden door at its end.

The door was ajar, something he never would have allowed, but before he could consider it, he heard the cry of his son.

“Teddy,” Deacon called out, pushing open the door and storming into the study.

Where he froze, stunned by the sight before him.

Teddy was struggling in the arms of Angus Heath, while the other members of the cabal pored through his belongings.