William Johnstone: Devil's Kiss

Looking at the stone tablet and its markings, Tim suddenly felt he had opened the doors to Hell, and could hear the cries of the damned and smell the stink of burning flesh. He felt he could sense the agony of the forever condemned.

"Calm yourself," he said. "Control yourself. There is an explanation for everything, remember?" Well, almost, he thought ruefully. "Don't forget, you're a scientist."

His words did nothing to calm him.

He poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the small refrigerator, drank it, then sat down on the stool in front of his workbench. He glared at the tablet.

The tablet glared back at him.

Tim realized, although the day was cool, he was beginning to sweat. His face was damp with perspiration, his shirt sticking to him. He reached out to touch the tablet, jerking his hand back as his fingers touched the stone.

The tablet had burned him!

"Goddamn you!" he cursed the stone. He looked at his fingertips in numb shock. His fingertips were raw from blistering.

The stone was glowing, pulsing with life, almost as a heartbeat from within.

Tim was suddenly ill, fighting back sickness that threatened to erupt from his belly.

He looked at the stone. It had ceased its throbbing.

"Ugly," Tim said. "Profane. The stone is evil.

He glanced at a hammer on his workbench and somehow, as if spoken to by a voice from afar, what he must do—and do it quickly.

No! a voice screamed from inside his brain, stilling his hand as he reached for the hammer.

Do it! another voice cried, as if in great agony. The voice seemed to be speaking from a great distance. Destroy the stone, the voice screamed. You must destroy the tablet!

The voices battled within his head as Tim sat on the stool, listening to the utterances within him. One voice seemed to be almost pure in its vocalizing. The other voice was very evil.

The voices fought, long and hard and loudly. Tim found the strength to reach once more for the hammer. Something with great force knocked him from his stool. He clawed his way to his feet, his head ringing with sound. His hand closed around the handle of the hammer.

The voices ceased their battling as the trailer door opened. Sweat dripped from the young archaeologist, and his body was strangely exhausted. He looked toward the open door.

Black Wilder, the project director, stood looking at him, smiling. His shirt was open to the waist, the sunlight bouncing off a medallion hanging from a chain around his neck.

The stone tablet began its pulsing, seeming to draw life from the medallion. The pure voice in Tim's head screamed just once, then faded away into a silent void. A piece of a long-forgotten sermon entered Tim's mind: God rules the Heavens, but Satan rules the earth.

Tim tried to scream, but no sound came from his throat.

"What were you going to do with that hammer, Tim?"

Tim's voice returned with a gasp. "I—ah—was going to chip away a piece of that stone, sir."

"With a carpenter's hammer?" the older man laughed. If Tim had known just how old Wilder was, he would have died from fright. "Now, Tim, really!" Wilder's eyes burned into Tim's. "That's a very interesting tablet. Find it at this Dig?"

"Yes, sir. I—ah—was just about to call you."

"Were you?" Wilder's tone was doubting.

Tim moved away from the workbench, away from Wilder and the glowing medallion. "What is that thing, sir?" he glanced at the stone.

Wilder smiled. "Why didn't you call me yesterday, Tim? When you found the tablet. Why did you visit that minister in Whitfield—Balon?"

Tim's memory came rushing back, flooding his brain with remembrances. He recalled the minister's wife, Michelle, and her burning eyes. He remembered his mixed emotions as her lips touched his mouth. "Why are you answering a question with a question, sir?"

Doctor Wilder's smile was very unpleasant. "You've never liked it here, have you, Tim?"

"I wouldn't say that."

Wilder's smile was all-knowing. The medallion glowed. The stone tablet pulsed.

"I—uh—like it fine, sir. I—just can't seem to make any friends with your people, that's all. Most of them aren't even civil with me. I think they dislike me for some reason, and I don't know why. I wasn't wanted on this Dig, I know that, and I'm sorry I raised such a fuss about going, now."

"You haven't given us a chance, Tim." Wilder moved closer to the young man. "You know that's true. Why. you've only attended one of our talk sessions for the new people."

"That's something else. What has happened to the new embers. We were friendly when we first arrived. Now they won't even speak to me. I don't like your talk sessions, sir. I don't like the way you and your people scoff at God. And why is it I'm always sent to Lincoln on Fridays. I get the feeling you don't want me around here on Friday nights. Why?"

Wilder laughed at him; an ugly laugh. "Such a pious young man, Tim. And such a suspicious one. Too bad."

Tim was suddenly angry. "You tell me what this is, Doctor Wilder. You tell me what's going on. This is not a Dig—most of your people don't know a dog's hind foot from a dinosaur dropping. I've never seen such careless digging in my life!"

"Are you doubting my reputation as an archaeologist?"

"No, sir. Just your explanation for being here. We've uncovered nothing of any importance here, and no evidence to suggest there is anything of any importance."

"Oh, my, yes, Tim." Wilder's voice was soft, "And you've found it."

The trailer became hot—stiflingly so. The stone tablet began to pulse as Wilder moved toward Tim. The medallion glowed. Tim began screaming as Wilder reached for him. The man's eyes were wild, burning with the same intensity as the medallion and the tablet and had Mrs. Balon's eyes at the parsonage.

Terror washed over Tim. "Leave me alone!" he screamed.

Wilder touched him on the arm, the touch searing Tim's flesh through the cloth of his shirt.

Tim screamed in agony. He screamed for a long time, the pain moving through him in ever-heightening waves of torment. In his tortured mind, he imagined the small room filled with demons, Wilder the host demon. The trailer filled with stinking smoke, engulfing Tim in a mist of evil-smelling fetor.

Tim lost all sense of date and time. He knew only his horrible pain, wondering why this was happening to him. Then, as the mist cleared, Tim found himself naked, his clothing torn from him, not by hands, but by claws. Filthy claws. His agony was unbearable, but somehow he could not escape it, his mind refusing him the luxury of unconsciousness. He was dragged outside to the ground. He screamed, but no friend came to his aid.

Claws ripped his flesh as the people of the Digging surrounded him, tearing at him, their eyes burning with hate and evil.

At a word from Wilder, the clawing ceased. The man leaned close to Tim, his breath reeking, offending Tim's face. The young man looked up into eyes as old as evil, as old as time.

"Won't you join us, Tim?" Wilder asked. "You can. Just repeat the oath. Say this: God is filth. God is shit. Reject Him!"

"No!" Tim screamed.

"Reject Him," Wilder urged. "It's so easy. Join us. Accept the Prince of Darkness, the blood of the Believer. Let the Lord of Flies fill your life with all the pleasures you have but dreamed of."

"NO!"

Wilder hissed his outrage at this rejection, spittle from his mouth dripping on Tim's face. Again and again he urged Tim to blaspheme his God. The young man would not deny his God.

"Then you will die!" Wilder stood over him.

"Oh, my God—my Savior!" Tim cried out his pain. "Help me."

The others began laughing as they danced around the young man, their tongues spewing blasphemy. The sunlit day grew darker, gray clouds moving restlessly overhead.