They Come from the Shadows

The gloom that had descended on Storrow, Washington was one of a strange nature. It was late October, and while the citizens of the small township were used to dreary weather–the constant mist of cold, peppery rain and the like, they weren’t accustomed to several days in a row of deep, impenetrable fog. More than that, there was a sentiment around the quiet streets that whispered its way from house to house as though carried by the chilling breeze snaking its way through leafless trees: something was coming.

Kayla Driscoll pursed her lips every night. She’d been told not to speak out of turn too many times by her husband to do anything else. Said husband was in the drawing room on this particular evening; his raucous laughs reverberated through the thin walls of their little home. A crass joke could be heard from one of his cronies–that is, his buddies, as he called them. The joke called women some unprintable slurs, and Jerry Driscoll ate it up. More than that, he exclaimed, “Buddy, you’re preachin’ to the choir! The missus over there could stand to hear that. Hey, Kayla!”

She did not reply, bracing herself for the inevitable expletives that came her way for being a “poor listener.” Slowly the laughter faded into chuckles, and then into murmurs, and then the grim seriousness of another Saturday night poker game settled in. She looked out of the window and wondered how her son was doing. He was away at school, her only boy–perhaps the only thing that had kept Jerry in line for several years. Jerry was so focused on turning his son Cody into a football player that he hadn’t had the time to deliver his wrath upon his wife.

What did I do to him? Kayla asked herself. The kitchen windows, floor to ceiling, looked out into an expansive yard that transitioned gracefully into a large forest. At least, that’s what she usually saw. Now, through the fog, all that could be seen was the suggestion of a patio, the shadow of an ice bath Jerry installed for Cody, and the hint of some tall tree trunks in the distance. She shivered. The sun was probably going down, but it was hard to tell these days. And those trees… they were haunting, the way they shifted in and out of the undulations of the fog. They almost looked alive.

Another round of laughter. Why didn’t she leave him? In Kayla’s mind, the thought of leaving Jerry was growing stronger by the day. The only problem was their prenuptial agreement that clearly stated that Kayla would be left with absolutely nothing if she left him, and seeing as she had no living family or financial safety net…

Perhaps she should have known when he took away her friends. That had been early on in their marriage–a marriage spurred by the passion of adolescent emotions, and she hadn’t thought much of it; why wouldn’t it be great to have more time with just Jerry… Jerry, who had never raised his voice at her, who had never called her names, who had never glowered at her.

Kayla’s shoulders slumped. Any moment now, her peace in the kitchen would be disturbed when one of them came in for another beer. Mark, one of the cronies, had slapped Kayla on the butt once when he was doing this, but she didn’t even have the heart to tell Jerry. She knew that outside of beating Mark to within an inch of his life, Jerry would be furious at her for even allowing such a thing.

She had just pulled out her phone for a distraction when something caught her attention outside. A shifting in the fog, that must’ve been it. But no… what was that out there, dark against the silvery mist? It looked… no, it couldn’t be. It looked like a person, silhouetted in shadow in her yard. Kayla’s breath caught in her chest. There was something menacing about that thing, yet she couldn’t escape its alluring presence. It was like that earlier sentiment had been actualized: that which was coming was now here.

Inexplicably, she opened the sliding door. Dressed only in light nightgown, she felt the sharp cold pierce her skin all the way down to her bone. After she’d closed the door quietly, so as to not alert the poker game, she began making her way towards the being in her backyard. Still, it was only a distortion of shadow. Even as she approached it, she sensed it backing up, constantly eluding her attempts to focus on it. There was an unintelligible whispering in her ear.

She was almost to the trees. Darkness was beginning to come to the edges of her vision. She walked through the mist with goosebumps on her arms and legs. When she felt her foot fall upon dried pine needles, a voice called out to her from the woods.

“What do you seek, Kayla Driscoll?”

It was deep and bounced off the trees until it felt like the voice was coming from all around her. She stopped dead in her tracks, suddenly afraid. Her breath misted before her, and her body was frozen in place; she could not turn to see the eerie fact that her house was no longer in sight. The dim light of the forest showed the tangled web of thick mist, but it did not show the speaker. Her voice trembled as she said, “I–Who a-are you?”

A grating, soft laugh. Mocking. “You may call me Azazel. Many years has it been since my footsteps have blighted the earth, yet I come to you now. You are the first to see my presence.”

And see it she did, for out from behind a tree stepped the strangest being Kayla had ever seen. It was a goat from the legs down, its dark gray fur matted with some dark substance. Above the waist, it was a lean, pale man, whose skin showed a network of veins. He wore no clothes, and his face… it was beautiful, and not just against his horrifying, anti-natural body. Strong cheekbones, soft features, and piercing blue eyes stood out to Kayla right away. He might have been the most beautiful man she’d seen had it not been for the thick, black ram’s horns that came out of his curly hair and curved maliciously like a pagan crown upon his head.

Yet the most troubling part about Azazel was not the juxtaposition between his horrific form and his beautiful body, but rather that Kayla got the distinct impression that he was not alone. Figures seemed to be melting from out of the shadows of multiple trees around her. The sun all-but vanished, leaving the forest in darkness now lit only by little torches which had appeared on the trees to cast sickly yellow light through the thick, opaque fog. Azazel grinned, flashing white teeth.

“Yes… we are back.”

“W-why here? Why Storrow?”

“You expected Jerusalem? Perhaps the Vatican?” Azazel laughed, and with him there came a deep, earthy chuckle from a darkness yet to be revealed, something that permeated every evil spirit in the forest.

From her periphery, Kayla saw gorgons take flight and cackle as they soared into the air, she saw a man with a limp in his step and an enormous gold fang sprint off into the distance. She was only able to whisper, “What the hell is going on?”

Azazel looked at her sternly. “I asked you what you seek. Is it deliverance from your boorish husband?”

She wanted to say no, but at the moment the question was asked, the affirmative answer flickered in her mind. Azazel pounced on it. In two large strides, he was standing in front of Kayla, a sword pressed to her throat.

“Then tell me honestly, and I will deliver you from him.”

She could only stammer, “I-I–”

“You ask why we are here?” asked Azazel quietly, the sword still pressed to his victim’s throat. “We are here because He is awake. He has returned, and we must do what we can to stop him. Yeshua, the One and the One Third. We must find him, and we will burn the earth to the ground while we are free. You ask why here, this pathetic little town? He spawned in some woods not far from here… we will find him, and we will put an end to him.”

“Who–”

“So foolish!” said Azazel. “You think that you deserve answers? That you deserve even the smallest modicum of justice? You think because you have suffered that you are absolved of sin, or deserve some retribution?” His teeth gleamed wickedly. “Here, take the blade!”

Azazel placed the short sword in Kayla’s hand.

“Before my brethren alight themselves upon the weak, the sinful populace of this township, I give you the honor of taking revenge into your own hands. Go to your home–the torches will guide you, and plunge this sword into the heart of your wretched husband. Watch the soul leave from behind his eyes, and then meet your fate by the hands of my companions!”

Kayla felt the sword in her hand–the metal burned so hot that it fused her skin to the blade. She could not let go of it. She found herself turned around. Torches were upon the ground now, clearing the mist and showing her the way to her home. Her purpose seemed clear enough to her. The blade in her hand was made of a black steel that looked like pure night. When she looked upon it, hateful thoughts began turning in her head. She felt that she needed revenge not only for the neglect and abuse her husband had given her for years, but also to Anna Richards, her high school friend who had stolen Kayla’s boyfriend from under her nose and who was now living with said boyfriend on a 15 acre estate in Montana. Then she needed revenge on Mr. Ellis, her seventh grade science teacher who had it out for her, always calling on her when he knew she hadn’t the slightest clue what the answer was.

And it was within her power. With this sword, she realized she could go anywhere. She could cross the country by slipping into one shadow and melting out of another one in Boston. She could walk the paths of the dead and return with the power of the one whose deep, sultry voice murmured Latin in her ear as she walked deliberately upon the path set out before her by Azazel. Kayla Driscoll realized, for the first time in her life, that limitless power was hers.

Before long, she was sneaking into her home again, quiet as a mouse. Her eyes burned with rage. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She heard Jerry say, “Thank Christ it’s finally raining. I hope it gets rid of some of that damn fog out there.”

There was a muttering of ascent. She was alerted to a presence behind her. It was Mark, and she felt his hand on her butt again, the coy smile on his face vanishing as he saw her eyes, as he saw the instrument in her hand.

“What the–”

And then the blade was in his throat, the blood soaking into it rather than spraying out onto the wall, as though it was being sucked into a void at the hilt. His pale green eyes showed one last spark of life intermingled with unimaginable horror as he saw the eternal fate before him before they went out.

“Kayla? That you in there? Can you get off your lazy ass and get us some beers? Christ, we’re parched over here!”

Her eyes venomous, she fixed her gaze upon the entrance to the drawing room. They’d turned the lights on to combat the gathering darkness, so they cast long, sinister shadows into the dining room. Kayla approached slowly, silently.

Jerry was not the first to see her. Andy, one of his three living friends, cried out in surprise and fear upon witnessing her with the sword in her hand. That called the rest of his friends to exclamations of shock as they scrambled away from the table. Jerry, his large back turned to her, said, “Guys, what–”

“Leave,” said Kayla firmly, fixing her eyes on each of his cronies in turn. They did not need to be told twice. They scrambled to the door. A distant shriek once the door was closed put a smile on Kayla’s face. So it begins, she thought.

Jerry turned to her at last and his dark, bleary eyes widened. He rubbed them–oh, how bloodshot they were already! He struggled to speak, but as she advanced upon him he blubbered, “K-Kayla, what are you doing? Is that a sword?” Fear registered with him at last, and his breathing grew quick and shallow. His broad chest and ample belly heaved as he pushed himself out of his chair and backed up against the wall. “Sweetheart, can you put that down, I don’t understand…”

She sneered at him. “Don’t you dare call me sweetheart, you pig.”

“K-Kayla, dear, where’d you get that? What’s going on?”

The tip of the sword was now poking into his greasy, stained gray shirt. His round face was flushed, the scruff on his cheeks and neck looking like dirt, the bags under his eyes looked like pestilence. His shock of graying brown hair was oily and unwashed. This putrid slug was the creature next to whom she had been sleeping for close to twenty years. It was his pungently hot breath that she felt on her neck, his hands that held her–groped her, rather, ungently in the middle of the night, after he’d staggered into the room with the scent of marijuana rolling off of him.

“Beg me for mercy,” said Kayla. Her already dark irises were now black as pitch, voids into which all light disappeared.

Jerry, in spite of his fear, growled. “Now listen here, you ignorant–”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Kayla took the sword and slapped him with the blade, gashing his face. Blood leaked from the wood and he howled in pain, shouting, “God damn, that burns like hell!” Before he could rush at her, the sword was back on his chest, piercing the threads of his shirt.

“Don’t move,” demanded Kayla, “and beg for your life.”

His chest began leaking a little blood as well, but this was soaked into the sword like Mark’s, and Jerry went deathly pale. He realized that he was losing a lot more than blood when a sword of this dark nature penetrated his flesh. One hand bloody, he pressed them together and implored, “Kayla… baby please, please don’t do this. I-I don’t know what’s going on, or how you got this thing, but I’m… I’m beggin’ you not to do this. I’m s-sorry that I haven’t been the best husband to you… Lord knows you probably deserve way better than me, and I’ve never seen it. I promise, I promise… if you let me go, we can start over. Remember how good it was when we first met? I can’t bring that back, but I can promise that I’ll go to therapy, I’ll change. Please, please believe me!”

If there was one noble truth about the slime that constituted Jerry Driscoll, it was that he did not lie. The promises he made were always kept, at least initially; he just had not promised Kayla anything but contempt and anger for many years. She looked into his hazel eyes, clouded by years of alcohol and marijuana, and she saw that they were now bloodshot not just from the substances he’d consumed this afternoon, but from genuine fear, grief, and perhaps even the first glimmer of honesty he’d had about himself in twenty years.

She found the sword lowering itself by a few millimeters, but then something caught her attention in the window that looked out onto the street. Amidst the darkness, now all but impermeable outside, there was a face that pressed itself against the glass. It was Azazel, his mouth hooked into a cruel grin, his eyes glittering with malice. She heard that voice within her head again, the voice that reminded her–though she could not understand its words, how this man had wronged her for two decades. What had she done to deserve such a lot in life? She’d been nothing but kind to people, gracious to her boyfriend, and now… now this man expected her to forgive him after one paltry, stuttering apology?

“I–I hate you, Jerry.” she said, and before he could reply, she plunged the sword into his chest, extinguishing his life and capturing his soul.

His last feeble words were, “I… sorry.”

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Azazel was in her living room. “Need I ask you my next question? Will you accompany me on this journey?”

He held out her hand and her own finally loosened from the sword, which placed itself into a scabbard at her side. She knew that her heart had already agreed. There was much to be done in the world, so many things she could change if she only had the power…

“My lady,” said Azazel quietly as their hands touched. Kayla found herself flying through the night sky listening to the screams of a small Washington town under siege by demons. They rose through the clouds and melted into shadow, beginning the next part of their hunt, their search for The One, and the One Third.

When a deliberate sun shone upon Storrow the next morning, not a soul lived to witness it. All was silent; even the wind did not dare speak.