Second Coming
by Shiny Wurmple
Chapter 1: Midnight, no stars
Castle Peak Cemetery, September 21st, 11 PM
Most of Castle Peak was asleep by 11 PM, save for a few. Howard Evans was one of them.
He did a number of odd jobs around town, from mowing lawns to repairing old rusty fences, but mostly he was in charge of maintaining the town's cemetery. During the summer, it was almost a full-time job, seeing as this was the time most old folks decided to croak. He was on his way to the cemetery in his pickup truck, which was loaded with clippers, a battery-driven hedge-trimmer, a crowbar for lifting gravestones that might have fallen over, a ten gallon gas can, and a lawn mower.
Despite his age, (he was nearing the big five, and sometimes every inch of his body ached after a hard day's labor,) he honestly liked his job. After the war ended, he needed a change of scenery. A change of life. After a fair amount of travelling and sleeping at sleazy motels, Howard had come to Castle Peak on a whim, because it was a small town in the middle of Nowhere, USA, and still held the promise of a fresh start.
Richie Moore, the town's only undertaker, had taken a chance on him, an old geezer with limited references-not mentioning his past employment as a mechanical engineer- and had given him a part-time job. And the rest was history.
The cemetery was on top of a small hill, and Howard turned in the drive, parked his truck, and got out. He loved working the night shift. When he was listening to his iPod, the work went a lot faster, and time just flew by. He was just about to walk up the hill, open the gate and start his doing his weekly maintenance tasks, when he heard the animated voices of some of the townsfolk. He could see them in front of the gate, standing together in a half circle.
He immediately recognized the authoritative, almost lecturing voice to be Joe's, the owner of the Gas & Grocery. It sounded like they were discussing something along the lines of satanism.
Oh no. This better not be some kinda prank. Fucking Halloween was still two months away, and Howard was not in the mood for any of that bullcrap tonight.
"What's all the ruckus over here? Are y'all tryin' to wake the dead?" Howard stepped forward and the others moved away to make room for him.
"– well I'll be dipped in shit."
Joe, Sally, and a Chinese kid he didn't know were staring at the eviscerated corpses of four cats, hung head-down from the iron cemetery gate. The grass underneath was no longer green, but reddish brown with coagulated blood. The cats stomachs were sliced open, and hordes of flies, slow with the coldness of the night were crawling all over them. Strange patterns were drawn on the ground with the animals guts and blood. Howard didn't want to look at the symbols for too long. The smell was overpowering, and it took all of his willpower not to hurl right then and there.
Graveyard vandalism wasn't uncommon, especially around Halloween. Kids would kick over a few gravestones, or write a few obscenities. He'd never seen anything like this, though. If kids were responsible for this slaughter, then they were real bastards.
(Although sacrifice was the word that kept popping back into his head, and he didn't like it one bit, just like he didn't like the symbols. They didn't feel right.)
Howard took a moment to compose himself, and when he spoke again, his voice was steady, and his hands no longer trembled.
"Move along folks, nothing to see 'ere. Probably just a prank. Goddamn kids. I'll take care of everything. It's my job, after all."
Sally, the town's doctor told him to make sure he disposed of the cadavers properly, to prevent any form of contamination. She was a pretty little thing, but nobody likes a smart-ass, especially Howard. The Chinese kid said nothing. He was dumbstruck, and just kept staring until Sally gently pulled him away from the gruesome sight.
Joe thought he sure as shit never did stuff like that when he was a kid, but he kept that thought to himself. He just shrugged and decided to mind his own business. He hadn't had a drink in hours, and his throat was bone dry. Maybe Harry would be at the King's Shield. He was a good fellow, up for a talk most of the time – and that usually involved a free drink for Joe.
When he made sure they were gone, Howard figured that he'd clean up now, and notify the town sheriff, Darren Craig, tomorrow, as soon as he woke up – not that he'd get a lot of sleep tonight.
He had a cat of his own now, a moody ten year old mixed breed he considered his best – and sometimes his only friend. He couldn't imagine anyone doing this kind of fucked up shit to an animal.
No longer humming, he slowly walked back to the truck to get his work gloves.
This was going to be one hell of a long night.
Castle Peak, Castle Kingdom Catholic Church, September 22nd, 12 AM
(Bless me father, for I have sinned.)
Father Maxwell rested his forehead against the cool glass of the open window.
He was still an imposing man at fifty-five. His pepper-and-salt colored hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and framed his gentle round face perfectly. His mouth was still firm, although surrounded by little laugh wrinkles, and he always wore a smile, whether he meant it or not. His kind, fatherly face and calm voice with the slightest Irish lilt made him a generally well-liked person around town, but then again, his counterpart Reverend Cullen was a raving lunatic.
Father Maxwell had been at the Castle Kingdom Church for almost 2 years now, and although he had adjusted, even made friends, he still felt like a stranger sometimes. There was something about the small rural town of Castle Peak that just wasn't right. He could almost feel it in the air, surrounding him, and he couldn't explain what it was exactly, not for the life of him.
The oak grandfather clock, the only family heirloom he actually brought with him to the new parish, struck the twelfth hour. The haunting hour.
During his long, solitary evenings, or whenever he had a moment to himself, Father Maxwell went to his study and worked on his play. The idea for a play about the journeys of a clever 18th century priest had come five years ago, but he couldn't seem to finish it. What appeared to be such witty dialogue and clever lines at ten turned to utter garbage at midnight, and the night's work would be crumpled into a little ball and tossed into the wastebin, or right next to it, close enough.
More often than not the night would end with a pen in one hand and a bottle in the other. Come to think of it, the drinking and the play started almost simultaneously.
'Because let's be honest for a moment about the real reason why you got transferred here, instead of your old parish.' His inner voice spoke up again, and although he could be a bastard sometimes, he usually told the truth.
In the beginning, there was whiskey, and Father Maxwell said: let there be a play.
His eyelids began to droop with exhaustion, and he yawned deeply. He made a mental note to himself to hide the rest of his bottle of Jack Daniels before Sister Helen found it again. The last time she had, the pitiful, knowing look in her eyes nearly broke his heart.
When he closed his eyes, he could see the darkness of the confessional booth. He thought about some of the confessions the townsfolk had made that day, and the many days before that. They honestly didn't differ that much from his old congregation at the L2 Colony. He heard most of the classics before, and he would probably hear them again.
I swore, I lied, I cheated, I hit my wife, I had impure thoughts, and so on.
Nothing very shocking, and although he occasionally felt the presence of evil in the confessional booth, it was a latent, mindless kind of evil that resided in the hearts of most common people. It was no stronger than the musty smell of the century-old wood.
He had been a stronger man before, when he was still with his old church, with an unwavering faith in humanity and the Bible. Before the drinking became problematic.
But now, he felt his words were empty. It was as if they all had roles in a play, a play of a small Catholic town. They came in every Sunday, sat through his sermons, took communion, calmly confessed their sins, got their absolution, and walked out with a clean conscience and a big smile on their face, then just sinned all over again.
Father Maxwell knew he was well on his way to losing his faith – if he hadn't already. He was very well aware that this may be his last chance to redeem himself, as a preacher, and as a person.
'And what if that didn't happen?'
His shoulders slumped, and he made his own sorrowful confession to the waxing moon outside.
I'm a drunk, and a lousy priest, Father.
When he peered out of the window, he could see the old ruins of the castle stand out as the proverbial eyesore in the quiet rural town.
As he clutched the crucifix around his neck tightly, he could almost swear he saw a light burn over there. The castle burnt down almost fifty years ago, but several sections of the large building had survived. They now stood alone on a hill, looming over the town and its inhabitants, like a harbinger of something sinister.
Pulling away the curtains, a closer inspection revealed that yes, the lights were definitely on.
May god have mercy on us all.
AN: I've decided to try something new. I mentioned in the description that this story is based on Stephen King's novel, Salem's Lot. It is in my opinion one of the best, believable vampire stories around, and being a vampire fanatic, I wanted to try my hand at writing a horror story.
I haven't given up on my other story yet, this is like a side project.
Happy Halloween everyone, and please drop me a review if you'd like to read more!