J. Gonzalez - They

Each “goddamn” was punctuated with a pounding of his fist on the dashboard. He lowered his head to the steering wheel, his long black hair draped over his heavily tattooed arms and shoulders, struggling to compose himself. Vince felt leaden, as if he was a spectator in a film he’d been cast in that he hadn’t rehearsed for. He felt awkward sitting in this car while the owner, who looked like he could snap the vehicle in two with his bare hands, struggled to keep from weeping. Vince sat still while Frank reined his tears in, trying to not seem so conspicuous.

When Frank was finished he wiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hands and smoothed his hair back. He turned to Vince. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… thinking about this… remembering the hell I went through… what it made me, just…” He let it drift into an incomplete sentence, as if he didn’t know how to finish.

Vince nodded, uncomfortable. “It’s all right. I’ve been going through my own personal hell as well. But I guess you already know about that.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, looking out at the park again, then back at Vince. “I do.” His deep brown eyes held secrets that wanted to spill forth.

Vince was going to try asking Frank what he knew about his mother and Laura’s death, what he knew about the attempt on his own life, when the bigger man began again. “Do you have dreams about being in a dark room and candles are burning all over the place? And there’s a strange humming sound and black hooded figures move closer to you? And they’re chanting?”

Vince’s stomach turned over in his stomach, as if dropped down an elevator. The chanting dream ! “How do you know about that?” he breathed.

“I have them, too.”

Vince looked surprised. “You? Wh… why?”

“I was there with you, Vince. That’s why I remember a little bit more of it than you. We were both there. Along with Nellie, and some of the other kids we used to play with. They stopped bringing us to them when I was five or six, but they continued the ceremonies themselves.”

“Ceremonies? I don’t understand—”

“Our parents were involved, Vince. Mine. Yours. A group of twenty or more people. Samuel Garrison was their leader. I even remember the sacrifices.”

A bolt of memory flashed through his mind. “Sacrifices?”

“Yes. I know it’s hard to believe, but—”

“Your parents were devil worshippers ?”

“Not just my parents, Vince. Yours, too.”

THIS SUDDEN REVELATION drained Vince. He needed a drink.

Frank suggested they get out and wander over to the recreation center. There would be soft drink vending machines there. They walked across the park to the recreation center, not speaking, both lost in their own thoughts. Vince bought a Coke, Frank a Dr. Pepper, and they walked back to the car, the summer sun beating down over them as they made their way back to the vehicle. The shouting laughs of playing took Vince back to the summer he remembered spending in California that was clearest in his memory. Seven years old and playing outside with the neighborhood kids, delighting in afternoon games of hide-and-seek, playing Dinosaurs, watching cartoons. Mom and Dad working, spending his days with Nellie and her folks, chasing after the ice cream man in his carnival-music-sounding truck as it drove slowly down the street as sprinklers showered summer lawns with cool water to run and play in. It was a magical time that seemed to last forever.

When they got back to the car, they climbed back in and sat in the stillness for a moment, savoring their soft drinks. Vince broke the silence. “It’s just so… hard to believe.”

“I know,” Frank said, sipping his Dr. Pepper. He turned to Vince. “And I’m sorry you had to find out about this. Especially after your mother died.”

“Are you sure my mother was involved?” Vince turned to Frank, imploring him to tell the truth. Don’t lie . He hadn’t had a lot of respect for his mother in the last ten years of her life, and he could accept anything about her regardless of how hideous. But this? Devil worship? It was beyond him. She’d been so… fundamentally Christian .

But then maybe that explained it.

Frank nodded. “I thought the memories were planted by the therapist I was seeing. I thought they were the result of my drug use. I didn’t know what to believe. But the more I thought about it, the more it began to make sense in a sick sort of way. I started thinking back on what I could remember that’d happened to me and place them with what I knew. It wasn’t until I started doing my own research into the occult that I found out a lot more. A whole lot more.”

“Like what?”

“So much that you can’t even imagine,” Frank began.

“My mother was killed by a devil cult I think,” Vince broke in, the words just tumbling out as everything began to come together. “The local detectives just think it’s some twisted kid or something, but… hearing all of this really ties it all in.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Frank said. “When I heard about your mother, I knew they’d tracked her down. And that’s why I had to get to you before they did.”

“But who are they?” Vince admonished. “I still don’t understand all that’s happening.”

“Okay, first things first.” Frank took a sip of Dr. Pepper, put the can in a holder between the bucket seats. “You need to know some background, how I came to find you and know about all this stuff. Okay?”

Vince nodded; he wanted to ask Frank why this cult would want him dead, but he remained silent. He took a sip of Coke, sat back and waited for Frank to begin.

“When I began my research into the occult, it was because of the repressed memories and dreams I was having that were coming out during therapy. At first I thought it was bullshit. The dreams actually first started coming sporadically about three years before I went into therapy. I wrote a novel loosely based on them called Darkness Inside . I thought I was purging the dreams when I wrote that novel. The dreams became a flood when the book was published, and that’s when I sought therapy. I thought I had another idea for a book—in fact, I’ve written several things based on these dreams, but we don’t need to go there. What you need to know is what I found in my research.”

He took another sip of Dr. Pepper and continued. “When I started doing my research I realized that there were many different kinds of satanic cults. There’s the usual group of stoned teenagers who have maybe listened to a little too much Danzig or Marilyn Manson, smoked too much dope and think Satan is cool and form an informal coven out of a sense of camaraderie. Most of the time these groups are harmless. Sometimes they cross the line into vandalism and other petty crimes. Sometimes they cross the line further and sacrifice neighborhood pets. Very rarely do they cross that line into killing people. Most often they’ll do blood ceremonies where they prick their fingers, squeeze blood into a chalice and drink it as their benediction. For the most part, these groups are very unorganized. Their theology is largely made up as they go along, but they usually find inspiration in black metal bands, horror movies, and a snippet from The Satanic Bible . In short, they’re usually formed out of rebellion.”

“ The Satanic Bible ?” Vince was amazed. “You mean one actually exists ?”

“That’s where the second group of Satanists comes in,” Frank said. “That would be the ‘legitimate’ satanic groups.” He emphasized the word legitimate by moving his fingers in the air: Quote, unquote. “I call these groups legitimate because they have taken the pains to register their organizations as institutional religions, and have even gone so far as to advertise themselves in local phone books. Groups like the Church of Satan, the Temple of Set. Both of these groups revolve around the basic belief structure of The Satanic Bible , which was written in the late sixties by Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey. LaVey passed away almost two years ago and the reins have now been handed down to his companion, Blanche Barton and his oldest daughter, Karla. The group itself is basically atheist. They don’t even believe in the Devil, much less God. They use Satan as a symbol of man’s carnal, natural instincts and behavior, and encourage this through ritual designed to appeal to man’s basic Jungian need for religious ritual. To the LaVeyan Satanist, you,” he pointed at Vince, “are your highest God, thus if you are a LaVeyan Satanist you worship yourself .”