The Apocalypse Door,
Part 12
by William Todd

After driving for three hours, Ian was exhausted and still felt very uncomfortable driving on the wrong side of the road and on the wrong side of the truck. He had gotten weary watching the highway speed hypnotically underneath the blue beast as he put miles between him and the rest stop. He’d had a mental breakdown in Schenectady, New York when he almost missed the exit to get off Interstate 90 and onto Interstate 88. Luckily, traffic had been extremely light, so he’d barely managed to cross all the lanes of traffic just in time to hit the exit ramp without causing an accident. From there, he got onto State route 17, the Southern Tier Expressway.

And now, at a little past 4:30, just north of the Pennsylvania-New York border, Ian carefully maneuvered the Kenworth onto the Thurmond exit. It spilled into a cracked and pocked two-lane road, and at the intersection was a sign with a right-pointing arrow and the words: Thurmond, 2 mi. The route was clear, so he carefully lurched the big-rig into the intersection and down the twisted road to his Armageddon.

Ian was anxious with trepidation but could only crawl down the serpentine lane. The potholes and hairpin turns made the way painstakingly slow. It felt as though the two miles took as long as the entire trip thus far.

A convenience store welcomed him when he finally made it into town. He rammed the Kenworth into a hard right and almost put it on its side as he pulled in and took up roost in the parking lot.

Now, he had to figure out what to do next. Time was of the essence. He looked at the digital clock on the dash, then peered up into the late-day sky. With Thurmond settled in a valley surrounded by long, steep ridges that ran parallel south-west to north-east, dusk was approaching quicker here than in places to the west of the ridge of mountains. The sun seemed to liquefy as it touched the fire-colored foliage that ran the crest of the ridge as if they were vastly hotter, melting it slowly across the horizon. Crimson and yellow-orange rays were scattered about like flickering tongues of fire from the swelling clouds against a canvass of deep blue. To those ignorant of the events, which would take place if Ian failed in his quest, the sky would have taken on the appearance of a pond reflecting the colors of autumn from the vast forest that enveloped the town. An image of midnight in Hell was all Ian could conjure up.

A strong wind that momentarily buffeted the truck drew his gaze earthward. Dried cavalcades of withered foliage danced a macabre dance of whirlwinds across the increasingly shadowed lot.

As he eyed the people entering and exiting the store, he could not help but wonder if they appeared to be who they seemed--every day, ordinary folk getting gas, stopping for cigarettes, lottery tickets, soda, snacks. Or were any of their bodies playing host to that vile parasite who had lived off of Art’s dead body. He wanted to go in and ask questions, directions, but now he could trust no one. To him, anyone could be that trick-or-treating demon made up as an unsuspecting individual going door to door looking for that special piece of candy they both were in search of.

Then Ian noticed that on the front outside wall next to an air pump was a pay phone.

Leaving the truck running, he jumped from the big-rig and hurried to the phone.

Dangling from a cord was a ripped and weathered county phone book. Judging by its thickness, only a few thousand people lived in the rural community. He picked it up and thumbed through the pages until he came to the W’s. His heart sank when he found no Walkers listed. Not a one.

He cursed under his breath. It was then that he noticed from the corner of his eye the bell towers of a church rising above the trees, about four blocks up on the main street into town.

No Walker’s? Then find the church. They’d know how to find Amos. Surely, they would.

In an instant, his mind shot back to the nightmare he’d encountered at the rest area, indeed had conversed with for hours before that. He remembered its inhuman strength, the stench of decay that rode on its breath. The hatred it had felt for anything holy seemed as palpable as his own racing pulse.

How could he defeat such a thing? He was only human. Only human. Then he remembered that the devil-child was at least partly human. Humans had frailties, had defects, even the best. It was the nature of their being. Lust, hatred, envy, greed, slothfulness, pride, gluttony. Everyone had these propensities to one extent or another: the seven deadly sins which, when knowingly practiced, led to one’s downfall into oblivion. Was that why it chose Art? Did it feed off of his transgressions? Well, somewhere in the demon’s humanness lay the answer to its downfall. Somewhere. Somewhere.

As long as he was still alive, then the possibility still existed for triumph. At least that’s what Ian tried to make himself believe as he ran back to the Kenworth.

The Church’s property stretched for three-quarters of a block. The gothic structure loomed large in the long shadows of late afternoon and itself seemed to mark the end of the tree-lined residential area of that part of town and the beginning of the four-block business district. Its sanctity was guarded by a rusted wrought-iron fence that ran its entire length, wrapping it like a metal glove. To its left was an empty parking lot, and to the right, a small, unkempt cemetery hidden in the shadows of a tall stand of sycamores and maples.

The dead must have taken their church with them for it was vacant, as vacant as the chambers of a cold, long-dead heart. Ian’s own drooped even deeper into his belly as he pulled the truck curbside. The stained-glass windows were boarded up, hiding their beauty like a cloistered virgin. The double entrance doors were bound by chain and lock, and white, spray-painted obscenities ran along one front wall. Greeting him at the front walkway surrounded by a patch of browning weeds and un-mown grass was a bronze, open-face dome, which had probably housed a statue of either the church’s patron saint or maybe the Blessed Mother. It now stood empty. Just behind, in the deeper portion of overgrowth was the outside bulletin showing mass and penance times. Its glass front was broken and leaves and muck were splashed and piled inside, making reading the words within almost impossible. But Ian could read the most important thing in it-- Saint Jude’s Roman Catholic Church. That was the church that St. Andrew’s had forwarded copies of Amos Walker’s baptismal records to when he’d moved from Scotland so many years ago.

As if not believing his eyes, Ian ran from the truck up to the front entrance and shook the doors, all the while crying, “It can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be!” The heavy metal chains rattled but would not give way. Beyond, within the belly of the church, hollow echoes reverberated with each disturbance.

Another current of autumn-crisped air mussed his sandy hair and nipped his sore neck, sending him to chill. He put up the collar of his coat and looked up the street. Except for a few cars passing through the intersection on the next block up and even fewer townsfolk walking the downtown streets beyond, the hamlet was still. Cozy would have been a word normally used for it was a tranquil, picturesque little community, almost Kinkadian. But now it didn’t seem cozy at all. It felt stifling. Now he felt as though he was in a coffin, buried alive and running out of air. Alone. No one to turn to, no one to trust, no one to call family, no one to call friend. Abandoned, even more than he’d ever felt previously.

He wanted to weep but felt too numb. He wanted to cry out, but anguish stole his words. He wanted to be angry, but this grave situation was of his own doing. He felt like dying, but knew that everything rested upon him. Overcome with emotion, Ian collapsed at the doorstep, face cupped in his hands. All that way for nothing. Everything he’d fought through to get to that one place in an instant became obsolete.

An object jabbed at his rib cage, and when he felt for what it was, extracted the crucifix from his inner coat pocket. He studied it for a moment, tears welling in his eyes. A profound sadness overtook him. A sadness at the realization of what Jesus must have felt like on the cross. He had been prepared to fight and overcome Death for the multitude he loved, and they had forsaken him. He was alone, in pain--scared. Everything Ian was now. The words his Savior cried out before dying rang in his ears and clung to his heart like a magnet. He whispered them aloud as he turned the cross slowly in his hand. “My God, my God, why haste thou forsaken me? Why?” Jesus had triumphed. Ian would not. Then, faith-drained yet again, he tossed the icon to the ground in front of him. All was lost. Gone.

Suddenly, a man’s voice startled him. “You okay, mister? You okay, I say?” A wizened, old gentleman resting his stick-body against a leaf rake was standing at the corner of the church. With the cemetery behind him, he looked like a scarecrow in a garden of marble and granite, his decrepit countenance scary enough to ward off all but the most determined soul snatchers.

Ian shot to his feet, startled by the old man. He stumbled back almost falling down the steps. Instantly, flashes of that devilish grin, ripping, rotting flesh, viscous innards and tremendously strong demon-hands raced through his mind and sent him reeling. He nervously felt at his deeply bruised neck with one hand as he reached in his coat for the crucifix with his other but realized that it was no longer there. He stared down at it, as it lay face-up on the walk way then looked nervously at the graybeard.

In return, the old man stared at Ian, looked over at the crucifix quizzically and looked back at Ian with furrowed brows. Scratching his bald head he said, “Scare you, did I? Didn’t mean to.” He motioned to the cross. “I say, looks like you dropped something there that belongs to you.” The sight of the crucifix didn’t seem to bother the old man in the least. In fact, he looked a little miffed that someone had the audacity to just throw it to the ground.

Ian realized quickly--and with no slight abashment--that he was in no danger. Had it been the Watcher, as he had come to call it, it would have bellowed in angry torment upon seeing the sacred object, even at that distance. In fact, he wasn’t sure that it could even be in such close proximity to a church without being tortured by its holiness--even an empty one.

His racing heart slowed a bit.

Straightening his coat and trying to hide his obvious embarrassment Ian said, “You did startle me a wee bit there. I-I thought I was alone.”

“I tend to do that, been told. What brings you ‘round here’s?”

“I’m lookin’ for someone,” he said still slightly red-faced.

“You talk funny,” the old man quipped.

“Yes, yes I know. I get that a lot, but--”

“Well, whoever you’re looking for, won’t find him in theres. She’s been boarded up years now. All the masses’re at Holy Cross in Mercer eight miles away.”

“Do you go there?” Ian asked. “Do you know a man by the name of Amos Walker? He probably talks like me a bit. He’d be about your age, probably a bit older--your what, seventy, seventy-five?”

“Answer to your first question, no. I spend my time tending to the cemetery here and at home. Got my own little temple in there. Priest comes around once a week to give out communion. Answer to your second question, no, too. Don’t know any Walker’s, come to think about it. And answer to your third question, ain’t none of your business how old I am.” He showed off a toothless grin, which gathered his flimsy covering of skin up high on his cheeks. “But I’ve been told that I look years younger than my true age, so I have. Anyways, this fella you’re looking for, he supposed to go to this church? If he told you that, either you ain’t talked to him for a long while, or he lied to you. She closed down in nineteen-eighty. Good little church. Hated to see her go.” He tapped at her stone siding as if patting an old hound dog.

Ian left the steps and, still a bit wary but with lessening apprehension, closed the distance between them. “As a matter of fact I’ve never spoken t’him myself. I just know that when he came t’this town from Scotland in nineteen-thirty nine, he belonged t’this kirk.”

“Belonged to what?”

“This kirk--church, this church. I searched the phone book but found no phone number t’reach him.” Looking back over his shoulder he said, “This is where I thought I’d find him, or at least his family.”

“Well, a lot could happen ‘tween then and now, yes sir. You sure this Amos is still Catholic? All kindsa crazy cults knocking on your door these days. Maybe he went off somewheres and shaved his head, waiting for aliens to come and take him away to heaven on a comet or something. In this country, if you can come up with it, you’ll find people to believe it, so you can.” He stopped long enough to rake up a few stray leaves that scuttled past his feet in the breeze. “And if he’s anywheres near my age, what makes you think he’s even still alive?”

“Whether or not he is doesn’t matter as much as findin’ out where he lives. I must go there, and I’ve little, I dare say, no time t’waste in doin’ so. This town and this little kirk was my one and only hope, and it turned out t’be a dead-end.”

Ian looked around, not so much at the trees and buildings and houses but beyond, his stare was hard. That damnable creature must have known. It was still out there in pursuit of or already at its prize, leaving Ian to chase his empty leads. It was probably already laughing at the pathetic little priest’s attempt at salvation. He sighed and dropped his head.

“So why do you gotta find this fella so bad?” the old man asked.

“He’s got somethin’ that doesn’t belong t’him. Somethin’ that belong’s in the care of the Church, if even it can be trusted t’Her.”

The old man wrinkled his already wrinkled brow more so and paused in thought for a moment. Finally, after scratching under his chin with the tip of the rake handle, he said, “You need him pretty bad, you say?”

Ian nodded.

“But you ain’t sure where he is since he obviously ain’t here?”

Again he nodded, hopelessness creeping back onto his face.

With a gesture from his bony arm, the man said, “Follow me, Father. I might be of some help.”

As they crossed the cemetery, heading towards the back and an alleyway, Ian noticed that it was actually kept well. Its grass was mown and overwhelmingly lush in lue of the season, and the leaves were raked into neat piles to be picked up or burned later. Even a few fresh flowers were placed on top of a couple of gravestones.

Ian scratched his head as he looked around. Although long shadows were spreading over the necropolis like a dark fungus possibly making it difficult to see with any certainty from the street, he could have sworn that the graveyard was in as much ruin as the old church was. Pulling up to the curb, he was sure he’d taken notice of the browning, overgrown weeds and toppled stones and the thick blanket of withered leaves drawn up to keep the tombs of those in residence there warm for the upcoming winter. Yet now, as he walked amongst the shadows and the dead, it looked well tended. Though he didn’t necessarily believe it, he blamed the false impression on fatigue.

As they weaved through tombstones he queried, “So you keep this cemetery prim?”

“If your asking do I take care of it, yes. I get a small stipend from the diocese for doing it. Supplements my social security okay, but I’d do it even if they didn’t pay me. Don’t like my Betty surrounded by weeds and filth, no sir.”

As Ian adjusted the collar on his overcoat once more, another thought occurred to him. “If I may ask, how’d you know that I’m a priest? I’d not told you that.”

“True, but I’m not blind, either. Got a glimpse of your collar under your coat. And who else would carry around a crucifix in their pocket? That was a crucifix you tossed on the ground back theres, wasn’t it?”

Ian felt stupid once more.

Except when answering Ian’s questions, the old man was silent, ghostly silent. And he was so slightly built that he almost made no noise even when walking over what dead leaves hadn’t been raked yet. He seemed perpetually at the brink of being carried off on the next stiff wind. But even so, he had an odd grace about him that seemed to keep him planted firmly on the ground. He was an odd, old man, he was. Absolutely odd.

When they reached the back of the cemetery, they went through a gate that opened up into the back of an alleyway and walked across the macadam to an old, dust-gray clapboard house, almost more of a cottage than a house, actually. It didn’t look very inviting or tenantable. There were no steps onto the porch where steps should have been, only cement blocks, and its screen door was ripped and looked as though it barely hung from the hinges. The large, dirt-coated picture window had a piece of duct tape running the length of a long crack, and a dim, flickering light inside spilled through to the porch. It seemed to keep in synch with its boarded up neighbor across the alley.

Ian followed behind the old man, still not knowing just what service he’d provide in helping Ian locate the Walkers.

He said, “I assume your wife’s name was Betty, but I still don’t know yours.”

“Cause you didn’t ask me,” the old man rebutted. He went silent again.

With slight frustration, Ian blurted, “Well I’m askin’ you now.”

“Lou. Lou Maxwell.” the old man replied, giving no cognizance to Ian’s manner. With some slight difficulty, he managed himself onto the porch and rested the rake next to the door. “Betty was my wife. Died, oh, going on twenty-five years now, I think. Took a little piece of me with her when she kicked off, so she did.”

“I’m sorry to hear that”, Ian replied.

Lou propped open the rickety screen door and unlocked the solid-wood front door. It was weathered and pocked, but the years of use had not stolen its integrity. A long whine whistled from the hinges as it opened, and it had a heaviness, a sturdiness in its swing that seemed out of place, being a part of such a fragile looking dwelling.

Lou motioned to Ian to follow and went inside. Ian, like a lost puppy, complied.

“So, do I continue to just call you Father or can I make up a name?” Lou quipped matter-of-factly as he closed the door behind them. “I’m partial to the name Homer myself. Actually, you look like a Homer.”

“No, no. My name’s Ian. Ian McConnell.”

“Well Mr. Ian, let’s get to work finding your friend, yes sir.”

Ian looked around the small room. It was cozier than the outside would have hinted--though only minimally--and was surprisingly clean, given the fact that Lou was an old widower and the condition of the exterior being such as it was. But it was also sparsely furnished, so there really wasn’t a lot to dirty up, anyway.

Ian took a few steps into the room, shrugging off a chill, and perused the dwelling. Against the back wall next to a doorway that led to other parts of the house sat an old tweed couch with shabby, lop-sided cushions which looked like it hadn’t been sat on in millennia, and next to that was the little tabernacle Lou had spoken of laid out on what looked like a card table. In the otherwise drab-colored room, the sight immediately drew Ian’s eyes. It was draped in red-velvet linen with a large gold crucifix at its center against the wall. A tiny alabaster statue of Mary adorned the right and a bronze-framed picture of his wife on the left. Three blue votive candles at the head of the altar were lit, flickering little, white-flamed dances in the dusk-gray room. The shrine looked almost as much for his Betty as it did for his Lord. Along the east wall, facing a tiny black and white television that rested on a wooden TV tray, was a gray vinyl recliner, as well worn as Lou, covered in more duct tape than vinyl. An end table and lamp were at its side. Ian was surprised at the scarcity of pictures dotting the walls, one on each; all with two people in them, presumably Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell. All had smiles of genuine happiness that seemed to make the pictures come alive. Two people that no doubt adored each other’s company, Ian thought. Traces of that deep devotion and affectionate smile could still be seen in the deep lines on Lou’s wrinkled face. No pictures of children anywhere, so Ian figured they must have been childless.

Yes, the entire house seemed to fit the old timer’s personality quite well--hard, uncluttered, simple. All, that is, except one thing. And given Mr. Maxwell’s demeanor and dwelling, it was the most odd, out-of-place appliance one would ever conceive of being in this gaffer’s home--a computer system along the front wall. Not an old, out-of-date, Godzilla piece of machinery, either. Top-of-the-line, from the looks of it.

Ian pondered the machine as the old man sat down in front of it and turned it on.

“’Lest you got really good eyes, I suggest you come here and see what I’m doing,” he said.

This whole scenario felt odd to Ian. There was something going on that he couldn’t quite put a finger on here. As he knelt down next to Lou and watched as they waited for the computer to boot, he asked, “Now why--”

“Why would an old geezer like me have a computer?” Lou finished.

“Aye. I guess I never figured you as the type t’be so--modern. No offense intended.”

“None taken. Takes more than that to ruffle my feathers. Anyways, you don’t even know me, so you don’t. I could do lotsa stuff you wouldn’t think an old gabber like me could do. Hell, I could fly and disappears into thin air, for all you know.” He let a chuckle slip from his gummy grin. “Just so happens that this little puppy here”--he patted the top of the computer--“keeps me in touch with the rest of civilization without ever having to go out in its muck. Yes sir, whenever I’m not cleaning the cemetery or watching ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ on the boob tube, I’m surfing the net, you see.”

He booted up AOL from his main menu, his fingers slow but methodical as he maneuvered the mouse and clicked the icons. In the silence as the computer connected to the modem to get online, Lou started to say something then stopped himself momentarily, as if uncertainty had pulled the words back. Then, he lowered his head almost shamefully and looked in Ian’s direction but would not make eye contact. He looked like a little troll as he slumped slightly in his chair and spoke, still gruff but with a gentler edge. “Been kinda lonely since my Betty died. This--this’s been my only sense of belonging besides when Father DeMarco comes to visit and give communion. I-I find people to talk to and exchange e-mails, you see.” He ran his fingers along the keyboard with a mildness not often found in such withered hands. “This’s been my Betty since she died. Probably go crazy without it . . . without her.” He turned back to the screen and typed some more on the keyboard. A moment later, the screen changed, and his mood change was just as quick. “Bingo!” he quipped.

Ian looked at the screen but was unsure what he was looking at, not being familiar with its set-up. “What? Bingo what?”

“Just hold on a second! Crimeny, you’d think the world was gonna end or something.” He clicked the mouse through a couple more icons then found the screen he wanted. “Now what’s this geezer’s name your looking for again, Arnold Palmer or Jimmy Walker or something?”

“No, no, Amos. Amos Walker.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He typed the name into the computer.

“So how will this help me?” Ian asked.

“I type the name in, you see, and put in a state to search, and if he’s in a phone book anywheres in that state, it’ll show me--name, address, phone number, all that. It’s a long shot ‘cause he might not have a phone or it might be unlisted . . . or he might be dead, but it’s a shot, anyway.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Ian said studying the screen.

He typed in New York then sent the computer to search the files for Amos. A few seconds later it beeped.

“Heh. No Amos Walker’s in New York.”

Ian slapped the back of the chair. “Damned!”

“Now don’t go getting your britches in an uproar. Just ‘cause he ain’t in New York don’t mean he ain’t findable.” He typed in Pennsylvania next, but before he sent the computer to search, he turned to Ian once more. His stare was one of concern. “Now before I goes any further, I got a question for you. Shoulda asked this before I even started, actually.”

Ian nodded.

“So, why’re you looking for this fella. For all I know you could be a psycho out to kill this guy if he ain’t already dead, so you could. I mean, ain’t too many priests I know who dress all scraggly like you and who throw a crucifix to the ground like you did. They’re sacred, you know.”

“As much as I’d like t’tell you, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“It involves . . .” He paused a moment. “It involves somethin’ you probably don’t believe in, somethin’, I say, I didn’t think even I believed in till it happened t’me.” He reflected on what to say next. Apprehension at what Lou would think of such a wild story caused him pause. At first, all he would allow himself to say was, “Do you--do you believe in demons, devils, fallen angels?”

“Yes sir.”

“I mean here? On earth?”

“As much as I believe in the good angels, so I do. You don’t get to be my age without seeing glimpses of where your going and who’s gonna take you there. And in my way of thinking, you can’t have the good without the bad, so you can’t. Like having day without night, love without hate. As much as you might only want one over the other, it just ain’t gonna happen. You’re a man of the cloth, you must know that? But that still don’t answer my question. Why this Amos character? What does he have to do with devils and demons and such?” He crossed his arms, smiled and winked at Ian. “And make it a good story, too, ‘cause you ain’t getting what you want ‘till I get what I want. It’s been a long time since I’ve had good company and good conversation.”

Ian stood and stretched an ache from his legs as he ran his hands through his course hair and looked out through the dingy curtains at the oncoming dusk. He didn’t have time to dally telling tales that he doubted anyone would surely believe. But without this one last attempt to find the key, the dark key, the key to Hell itself that Amos Walker had taken so long ago, he might as well just curl up and wait for the end. And it wouldn’t be a long wait, either. This old man, this--grave keeper held the one last hope he had at redemption and the world had for salvation.

For a long while, Ian had husbanded secrets, some known to fellow clergy, some known to no one but himself. Those burdens had weighed him down, and he now felt as though he was drowning under them. Whether believed or not, whether he won or lost, this, his last battle, he decided to give the man his story but only an abbreviated version of events thus far. He’d wasted countless hours already on this dead-end hunt. If there was any hope left to stop the Watcher he needed to be back on the road--and soon.

He kneeled next to Lou once more and recounted the trail from Oban--with a digress back to Glutter Den when asked by Lou why the hell a priest took up mining in the first place--to nearby Greenock to Londonderry Ireland, chasing the killings as the beast sought out the key. Then to Belfast, Boston, then to Thurmond where he now stood empty-handed. He told Lou of the ancient papers he’d found, of the other key he’d found and now carried with him.

When Ian finished, Lou scratched his whiskered chin, obviously intrigued with the story and asked, “So what about this key you say you have? The one that brought back the ‘prodigal son’?”

Ian hesitated but then slowly reached into his front trouser pocket and retrieved the leather satchel the key was in. Holding it up in front of him for Lou to see, he held the satchel at its base and, holding the key inside, peeled the satchel away like a banana so he held onto the key and could see they key without touching it directly. “She’s a beautiful thing, aye?” He turned the golden, angel-engraved key in his hand for Lou to get a full view of it. The brilliant shine seemed to cast its own light in the room, and it held an energy that couldn’t be seen so much as felt. “T’think that you can actually see, see with your own eyes what heaven is like, see and talk t’the souls who by grace found their home there . . . its indescribable.” Ian had looked at it a hundred times, and even now, he still felt goose bumps. “The papers say that you can even pass from here t’there, a sort of doorway, you might call it, but Saint Peter declared that only the Blessed Virgin was worthy.”

By the look on Lou’s face, Ian could tell that he was mesmerized, also. He tried to reach out and touch it, but Ian pulled it away quickly. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You pay a high price for seein’ this show. She packs quite a whollop.”

Lou retracted his hand, trying to hide a geezerly pout and crossed his arms defiantly. “Wouldn’t wanna touch it anyway. Takes the fun outta faith when you know something for sure”

Ian smiled. “Aye, but it gave me mine back.” As he re-sheathed the key he added, “So, you’re not the least bit interested in seein’ what she can do?”

“Heh. I don’t need to see. I already know what’s there.”

“It takes the fun out of faith when you know it for sure,” Ian mimicked as he returned the key to his pocket.

“Yes, but faith got me there,” he winked. “So anyway, can’t you use the key to help you find this Angus?”

“Amos, it’s Amos. And I’ve already thought of that. Unlike those in the torment of Hell who want out, who would rather be here, those in Heaven don’t. And they couldn’t help anyway, they don’t know what God knows, they don’t see what He sees. There are rules t’abide by, set down by the Almighty when playin’ a game such as this, and those in Heaven abide by them--”

“And those in Hell don’t, those cheating bastards,” Lou finished. “Kinda makes it hard.”

“Aye, but it is God alone who decides whether t’intervene here, and He Himself chooses the method of intervention, if He even chooses t’do anythin’ at all. Some things must play out naturally, and so far I’ve seen no sign of Divine Providence in my struggle. I guess if the Almighty decides it, I’ll be facin’ this challenge alone.”

“Sounds like a lop-sided fight to me.”

“Aye.”

“Wish I could help you on that one.”

“So you believe what I’ve told you?”

“Don’t have any reason not to. I told you, supernatural stuff, ghosts and demons and such, it’s all part of the way things are, so it is. But since I ain’t no ghost buster, I can’t help you there. But about this other thing you talked about, the thing that got you into the hot house to begin with, that’s more my area. Tell me, when did you start ‘losing your faith’, as you say, before or after you started having the hots for this friend of yours?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know? It all happened around the same time, maybe? Why?”

“Well, you can’t expect me to hear a story like that without putting in my two-cents-worth? If’n I did anything in my years on this earth, I learned some things about life.” He scratched his chin contemplatively then said, “As I see it, you never lost your faith or even became unsure of it, you were just questioning authority.”

“I’m a priest, and I questioned sacred teachings, teachings I’d once believed in.”

“No,” Lou said impatiently, “you questioned the authority of those who came up with those teachings. And besides, teachings ain’t the same as doctrines, so it ain’t. They can change teachings anytime they want. Doctrines stay the same. Crimeny, you’d think maybe I should be the one wearing the collar, so I should.

“I questioned the Holy Church, then I faltered as a priest. I committed fornication!” he demanded.

“Damn it, no you didn’t! You questioned authority! Hell, Jesus questioned authority. Why do you think he was crucified? Questioning is the process of discovery, and you were at a point of discovery in your life. You didn’t bed that woman ‘cause you lost your faith. And even if you did stop believing in God for a time, He obviously never stopped believing in you. Besides, like you said, that key gave you your faith back.”

“It shouldn’t have taken that key t’restore somethin’ I should’ve never lost.”

“How does that old saying go? Any port in a storm . . .”

Ian felt uncomfortable with this line of questioning, still felt the shame of what he had done as sure as he felt the throbbing pain of his bruised neck. He now wished that he’d left that part of his story out. “Of everythin’ I’ve told you, why do you choose t’focus on my cuckoldry? There are more grave implications here.”

Ignoring him, Lou looked over at the picture of his wife on the altar, and a deep affection welled in his eyes and flushed his cheeks. It was as though she were really not dead but right there smiling back at him. “Did you love her, that girl of yours?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the photo.

“She was not my girl!” Ian demanded angrily as he rose to his feet and turned his back to Lou. But he was not able to sustain that anger. His shoulders sagged. Deep down he knew that the old man was right. He had judged himself so harshly that he made himself believe that he wasn’t worthy to be God’s messenger or Fiona’s lover, was able to easily forgive others’ faults and transgressions but wore his around his neck and hands and feet and heart like iron chains.

Again, Lou asked with determination, “Did you love her?”

In almost an apologetic whisper, he said, “Aye.” He cleared his throat. “Still do.”

“Then how can something done in love be wrong? Misplaced, maybe, but not wrong. God knows you love her. He knows you love Him. How could he not forgive you?”

“I guess maybe I feel as though He shouldn’t.”

“Don’t think that’s your choice to make, so it ain’t. And besides, your still wearing the collar. What does that say?”

Ian fell silent for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, “With what happened in that tunnel, the blood of the entire world’ll be on my hands. How could He--how could He forgive that?”

“The good Lord forgave the men that drove those spikes through His hands and feet. He forgave Peter for denying he even knew Him. God’s forgiven you, be sure of that. But penance needs paid for contrition, so it does. Only God knows what that price is. Different for each of us poor souls.” He eyed Ian over with a look of pity then said, “I suspect, though, that deep down you probably already know what price you must pay.”

Ian sighed, said nothing.

With that, Lou turned back to the computer and clicked the mouse sending the computer hunting for Amos Walker once again. After a second of silence another beep filled the room.

“Bingo!” he yelped with his smiling jack-o-lantern face. “Found you an Amos Walker.”

Startled at both the exclamation and the quickness in which Lou had changed subjects, Ian returned to his side, this time only bending at the waste instead of kneeling. His joints were sore as was the rest of his body. His nerves were like bare wires, and he had begun to feel old as the weeks of pursuit and sleepless nights had begun to take their toll. His eyes, once bright and alive, had dulled, his skin now sagged where once burly muscle had been and gray hair out-numbered his true color. He had been thirty-seven in name only. He looked and felt twenty years senior, but at the thought of actually finding Amos Walker, he suddenly felt slightly rejuvenated.

“Lucky you that there’s only one in Pennsylvania. Think its him?”

“I need to call, straightway.”

“Sorry, Mr. Ian. No telephone. Had one, but it broke. No need for one, really. No one to call and no one to call me. I do all my correspondence now by this here. If’n I do need a phone, I just walk down to the convenience store and use that one.”

“Check other states around t’see how many more of them there are.”

Lou then checked the rest of the Northeast along with Ohio, Maryland and West Virginia, showing only two other Amos Walkers, but one lived in Bangor, Maine, the other in Providence, Rhode Island. They were both in the opposite direction that the demon-beast was headed, so the one in Pennsylvania had to be it.

“Can you print that out for me?” Ian asked, voice charged, hands once again damp with anticipation. He blotted them on his overcoat.

“Hold your britches there, Mr. Ian. She’s already on her way.”

A minute later, Ian had the paper in his hands. He almost ripped it to shreds as he nervously folded it up and put it in his pocket. With a renewed passion, he said, “I can’t thank you enough, Lou. You just might have helped me save this world.”

“Well, the hard part ain’t done yet. And I must say I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, so I am.” He winked at Ian. His eyes seemed to hold more life in them then they had just seconds ago. “Just glad I could help.”

Ian shook Lou’s hand. It was ice-cold.

“Just remember one thing,” Lou said as he struggled to get up from the chair.

“And that might be?”

“Love is a special thing, Mr. Ian, priest or no priest. And I’m convinced not everyone gets a chance to have genuine love. Never forget it, and never forget her. Leave everything that happened in the past and everything coming up to the Man upstairs.” He turned and went to the make-shift altar, picking up Betty’s picture and studying it, caressing it. Not looking back, he said, “Now go do what you gotta do.”

At the front door, Ian turned and said confidently, “That, I will, Lou. That, I will.”

The evening was noticeably cooler now that the sun hid behind the surrounding hills, and long, dark silhouettes stretched out across the alleyway as if grasping at Ian’s feet.

He was half way across the street when something eerie suddenly hit him, slowing his run to a walk, then he stopped altogether. The cemetery had somehow transformed itself from that mowed and edged and de-leafed and plush-green sanctuary of dead to the forgotten, unkempt, weed-infested tract of land that he’d remembered seeing when he first arrived.

He blinked hard.

It was still there.

He rubbed his eyes.

Now it looked worse.

He turned around, and the old clapboard house was dark, silent. Neither flickering candlelight nor light from the computer monitor penetrated the porch’s deep murkiness. It looked to be in even more ruin than when he had entered, as untouched by human hand as the cemetery.

He thought about going back and confronting Lou Maxwell again, but after the hair on his neck tickled him with apprehension, he thought better of it. Somehow he knew that Lou would not be there.

His heart pounding out an arrhythmic beat, he started back across the Jeckyll and Hyde graveyard, tracing the way Lou had taken him.

Halfway along, two gravestones caught his eye. They were the flower-gifted tombs he’d noticed earlier. The two beautiful, white lilies, one on each grave, added striking contrast to the entropy around them.

He stopped and knelt down to read the inscriptions. He squinted in the pallid light to make out the names. The first read: Betty Maxwell, Born December 23, 1922. Died April 11, 1978. When he read the second one, his heart almost stopped: Louis Maxwell, Born October 13, 1919.Died July 25, 2003.

Ian jumped to his feet. Chills covered him from head to toe, and his breath caught in his throat. When he noticed that he was standing on the still somewhat fresh grave, he jumped back and almost fell over another marker behind him. Righting himself, he fumbled in his coat for the computer paper Lou had given him. It was now yellowed with age.He opened it. The information that had been printed on it was miraculously still there though very faint, as if it had been printed ions ago.

He looked up into the sky, now a deep purple-red as the sun bled itself out, and made a sign of the cross. Suddenly, a warmness filled him from foot to head, an indescribable feeling of peace. He no longer tried to talk himself into believing the Watcher could be stopped but actually felt it in his marrow. He had a renewed confidence that Good was on his side.

He gave Lou Maxwell’s grave one last look and touched the top of the tombstone; as close as he could get to shaking the old man’s hand. He almost wanted to hug the cold piece of marble. Then, with an energy he hadn’t realized for what seemed an eternity, he ran back to the still-idling truck, but before getting in, went back to the steps and retrieved his crucifix. This time he held onto it tight.

©2004 StoriesByEmail.com