December 2032 – Outside Framingham, Mass

The property, viewed from above, would look like any other stretch of untamed northern woodland. Large clusters of dead trees were the skeletal remains of pecan and walnut groves that hadn't seen human care in nearly a century. The bare trees clustered around the overgrown walls of an old, sprawling Kirkbride building that was centrally located on the land, abandoned long before the trees died.

Large portions of the venerable façade were missing completely, razed by fire and bulldozers decades ago. What remained had fallen into disrepair when the facility was closed in the late 1980's. Over time, several vagrant ex-patients and even some staff members returned to the place in secret after their unceremonious eviction from the hospital when it was closed by the government. They kept the place from completely crumbling into memory.

The War of the Celestials had done nothing to improve the property. The spirit of the place was strong enough to shelter the underground tunnels, but the buildings above ground had taken a severe beating. The old brownstone brick was pitted and cracked. An unnatural fire that raged for thirteen days left the south field so badly scorched, the topsoil turned to black lava glass that gleamed in the afternoon haze.

"Charming," Pieter said as he surveyed the fog-covered region.

Behind him, the rest of the group he brought with him gathered: The triplets, along with three of Michael's shorn-headed devotees, and one rogue spirit from the Montgomery Mansion. Pieter wore his customary all-black attire and went barefoot. The triplets were in black as well and had their hair bound back in tight buns. Michael's guardsmen wore black jumpsuits and balaclavas and even Ben Harmon, tag-along that he was, managed to fit into the group in his black slacks and dark blue pullover.

It was the furthest Ben had gone since his mortal days. Talking Pieter into allowing him along on their trip had been surprisingly easy, something that left him suspicious of the man's intentions. Not enough to keep him away; enough to keep a casual but wary eye on him.

Ben knew very little about Michael's inner circle or his doings anymore. He hadn't deliberately avoided news. He just tended to avoid Constance Langdon, and she was the person Michael interacted with the most. Seeing her and Jeremiah juggling the twins brought back too many unpleasant memories of the end of his own life, and the twins his wife died birthing. During the trip up to Massachusetts, he had gotten a feel for the dynamics of the group he was with. He knew Pieter was the uncontested leader of the excursion and that he scared the crap out of the others even Michael's henchmen.

So far, the warlock had done nothing to inspire fear in Ben. The man seemed quite genial when they met and during the drive out. His disposition may have been bolstered by Ben volunteering to pilot the van through the long hours of the nights: It made what would have been a tedious four-day trip into a two-day drive. He didn't need sleep, so it made sense for him to offer. Pieter had seemed genuinely pleased to take him up on it.

"So, this is Briarcliff," said Ben. "Not quite how I pictured it."

"Has anyplace you've seen been how you imagined?" prompted Pieter.

"I didn't have expectations of other places we've been through."

"What did you expect of this place?"

Ben looked around and shrugged. "I suppose I thought it might be more...whole. Don't know why."

"Welcome to the end of the world," said Meg, soft but wry.

The group moved up the staircase to the main entrance. The double doors were weathered black iron, scratched up and ugly. One had two slots in it: A narrow one high up and a larger one lower down.

One of Michael's acolytes reached for the door handle, but the door swung open before he could touch it. There in the doorway was Billie Dean Howard. The medium had her gray hair loosely piled atop her head in a Gibson style and wore a tunic she had fashioned from the extra-large straitjacket that she had waved at her followers just days before. The old leather was belted in odd ways to keep it strapped on her.

Alec started toward her only to be intercepted by Pieter's hand on his shoulder. "Hello," the warlock said pleasantly to Billie Dean. "The lady of the house, I presume?"

The entryway behind the woman was pitch black. It was too dark to see anything beyond her, in fact. Unnaturally dark. She smiled. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, similar to the way a blind person would look in the direction of another voice without actually seeing the individual speaking.

"Pietre. Did you come all the way here to play name games?"

The warlock pushed past his ward and put himself directly in front of the medium where he executed a half bow with a flourish of one hand. "Names are so much fun to play with. Are you using a new one now, my dear? Or shall I call you what I did the last time we crossed paths?"

Her smile frosted slightly around the edges. "My people call me the Seeress. You can too." She looked past him at the rest of his group and noticed Ben for the first time. His presence surprised her, but she recovered quickly.

"Madam Seeress," said Pieter. "We are here on a matter of...diplomacy. May we enter?"

She shifted her attention back to the blond man. "Just you and the dead guy. The rest need to leave."

Pieter looked disappointed, exaggeratedly so. "Your lack of trust wounds me. Children? You may return to the van with the guards."

Tisi looked decidedly unhappy at his direction, though she didn't hesitate to join her siblings and the acolytes when they retreated.

Once the bulk of the group was heading away, Billie Dean stood aside to allow Pieter and Ben to enter the old asylum. The darkness swallowed them eagerly.

...

-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-

...

New 'Salem

Troy's decision to return to the Montgomery Mansion was the brainchild of too much alcohol, not enough sleep, and basic poor judgment. Over a week after his panicked flight from the house, he came back with the hope of encountering Pat again, both to ask him some questions about what he'd seen there last and also because he was horny. But it was Moira who answered the door.

To him, she looked young and luscious. It took so little effort for the maid to seduce him, she didn't even bother to fake that she liked him.

"Is that all you've got?" she taunted him as he fucked her on the same couch he'd passed out on during his last visit.

Predictably, he thrust harder. She arched into his motions smoothly. She'd danced this same dance many times over the years. It almost bored her. But if it got her what she wanted it was worth a few minutes of time she had in spades.

Without warning the front door slammed open letting in a gust of icy wind. Three big black birds swooped into the foyer, each one winging a different direction through the house. One flapped into the Great Room and landed on the mantle above the fireplace. It gave a throaty CAW-CAW-CAW!

Almost instantly Michael was in the doorway. The air around him was charged with negative energy. The smell of sulfur filled the air.

"Leave."

The word was aimed at Moira. His gaze was so sinister, his wrath so palpable and terrifying, she didn't bother with mortal moves. She just vanished, moving herself to the far side of the house where she hid and prayed for the first time in a long time.

Back in the Great Room, Troy yanked up his pants. He was drunk but not immune from Michael's obvious mood.

"Hey. Uh."

He was spared having to fish for what to say because the Antichrist was suddenly standing right beside the couch, looming over him, seizing him by the throat.

"Your instructions when I sent you after Samael's seal were to kill the psychic," Michael said. His words were clipped, held in tight control. He squeezed Troy's neck tighter. "Did you kill her?"

Of course, he already knew the answer. Sudden panic sobered Troy a little.

"I had the pendant," he said with effort. It was hard to talk while his windpipe was being slowly crushed. "I didn't think some old lady mattered."

Michael abruptly released him and straightened. Troy heaved a deep breath and gagged a little.

"I guess you'd know best. Tell me, Troy, since you know so much more than I do...Tell me why I shouldn't break every—"

Michael's head twitched a little. Troy felt his left pinkie finger break. He sat up with a yelp, clutching his wrist.

"Bone."

Snap. Snap. Two more fingers broke.

"In your body."

Michael broke the rest of Troy's fingers in one go.

Troy howled in pain, mind racing. "Michael!" he gasped. "Don't kill me! You need me!"

"I'm not so sure of that," said Michael.

Troy's vision swam. Oddly, he was thinking more clearly than he had in weeks, despite the pain—or perhaps because of it. "Belial is the darkness. You are the light. The final fight is coming. What you do amplifies through me."

His last words were strangled; the agony from his arm was too great. But what he got out seeded in Michael's thoughts. He couldn't unhear what Troy said and knew he was right, even if he did want to keep hurting Troy. Michael toyed with the notion of doing just that, but that would require putting him back together afterward. As it was, the bones he shattered would need fixing if he wanted Troy in a shape to travel.

Which he did.

With an air of disgusted resignation, he repaired the worst of the damage. Blood dripped from his nose, irritating him further. He sniffled and made a sloppy attempt at wiping the blood away.

"Fucking asshole," he grumbled. He got really close to Troy's face then, eyes locking. "When we find the bitch who has my last relic, you had better be my God-damned atom bomb."

...

Author's Note:

As of this posting I have just completed my finals for the Spring semester and am officially on break for the Summer. This chapter could stand more editing, but I didn't want to keep things hanging.

Of course, if you've been with me since the beginning or anywhere close to it, I suppose time isn't of the essence. It's coming up on eight years now. Can you believe that? If you've just found this fic, welcome to the end of the world.

Don't worry. Whatever you've missed can't possibly prepare you for what's coming up.