As any good artist will tell you, inspiration is the key to
creating something from nothing. As a
novelist, I typically will take a story or interesting or scary time of my life
and mold and shape it into a compelling piece of writing. In my new novel,
Terminal Restraint, I’ve
done that with a tale told to me by a friend a while back.
I recall I was in my early twenties, and we were sitting in
another friend’s living room, and this was the first time I had met this guy,
Dave. He had a bald head and goatee
(kinda like me), was tall and athletic (kinda like me), and he appeared to be
on speed or some other energy-boosting drug (not like me). In his
hand he held a bottle of Mountain Dew, and he swore up and down that’s all he
had consumed that night. Shortly after
getting to know him, I knew he was telling the truth, as I’d never seen the guy
take any drugs, not even smoke any cigarettes.
I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him drink. But anyway on this particular night in his agitated
and jumpy manner, he told us a story that I’ll never forget.
He and a couple other guys were driving up State Route 36
from Altoona to Ashville, Pennsylvania.
The road runs through a rather remote area, and the sun had set hours
before. At one point, the driver turned
to them and asked if they wanted to see a Satanic church. Uh, what?
The passengers all laughed, but a mile or so up the road, the driver
turned into what appeared to be an old abandoned dirt road. He drove on through dense forest in the dark
of night, their car jostling them as they drove over deep potholes, until they
reached a clearing. And there, before
them, was an old structure, a church, with red lights glowing in the windows.
As they slowed to a crawl and the driver turned out the
lights, they began to hear screams coming from the church. They listened for a few minutes, but then
suddenly dogs began barking—not from one distinct spot up ahead
but from all around them. Several of the
passengers reported seeing animal eyes looking at them from the darkness, and
they immediately turned around and fled, going at a much quicker pace down the
dirt road than that at which they had travelled up. A third of the way down, a set of headlights
appeared behind them, and they could tell that their pursuer was coming up on
them fast. They finally exited the dirt
road and took off back up Route 36, and behind them they saw the car pull out
into the road, stop, then drive back up.
And apparently their driver had predicted the dogs barking and the
pursuing car, as he’d done this twice before and witnessed the exact same events.
Dave’s little story was scary, but of course he had
doubters. One person commented that they
were probably just trespassing and being pursued by the property owners. Another asked if it was just Christmas or
Halloween and if the lights were just decorations. Dave swore up and down that none of that was
the case, and I can honestly say that for years I’ve wondered about this
mysterious Satanic church. And the few
times I’ve travelled that road, I’ve looked for this mystery driveway, but alas
I’ve never found it. Then again, it’s
not marked, so why would I?
I’ve always had a fascination with the dark/odd/quirky/taboo. I think a lot of people do, but they are just
afraid to admit it—at least publically.
I was always one to listen to controversial music: AC/DC, Motley Crue,
KMFDM, Marilyn Manson. It was never in
an attempt to rebel or just be different, rather it was me trying to understand
what all the fuss was about. And of
course I’m partial to rock and industrial.
About ten years ago, a friend of mine said that I resembled
Anton LaVey, the man behind the Church of Satan. At the time I had only an inkling of who
Anton LaVey was, but after looking him up, I was dumbfounded.
Me circa 2002. Creepy, right? I didn't even know! Of course, I read all about him and his beliefs. While I don't personally agree with them, they are very interesting, to say the least!
When I began writing
Terminal Restraint, I had this idea in
my head of killing off my main character.
But I needed some way to bring him back, or at least make him “not dead.” I’d already done the technology thing in my
first two novels, so I figured I’d delve into the paranormal with this
one. And what better way to do it than
to use the idea of black magic?
So I began perusing the web and researching a little more in depth, and the more I
read about black magic and, in particular, LaVeyan Satanism, the more I
realized how it’s not really at all like how I had imagined it to be. I mean, I knew who Anton LaVey was and that he had his Church of Satan, and I knew they didn't actually have human sacrifices, but there's a lot to them that I had merely glanced over a decade ago. LaVeyan Satanists, for starters, do not believe in
Satan. They are atheists. And the black magic they do isn’t really what
you think.
But by this time I had already
had half of my novel written, and even though theistic Satanists are quite
different, I wanted to stick with the Church of Satan theme. So I had to change some things up, and of
course I still wanted to get all of my hidden messages through to my readers. But I still managed to pull a bit of Dave’s
story into my work, and sure enough LaVeyan Satanism plays a big part. After all, I was his spitting image!
Below is the first chapter of
Terminal Restraint. If you like it, check it out on Smashwords or
feel free to hit me up for a coupon for a discount.
Chapter 1
Autumn, 1974
The hunter green Jeep Cherokee slowly pulled up
the long and winding driveway, its tires crunching over the cracked slate and
loose shale. The old man glanced down at
his map again for reassurance, steering clumsily and trying to confirm whether
this was the correct driveway. The dirt
road had not been maintained well, and numerous thickets and briar trees
scratched and clawed at his vehicle like children drawing their nails down an
elementary school chalkboard.
The house, as described to him by the panicked
young man, was up a long and twisty driveway off of Route 36 between the small
city of Altoona and the tiny town of Ashville in central Pennsylvania. The private road was barely noticeable, and
he almost missed it even in the bright sunlight of the afternoon. Even the rusting mailbox to the side of the
driveway had been obscured by a fallen tree branch, and he was lucky to have
spotted it with his poor vision.
The beleaguered caller had asked him to come
during the evening, but he had refused, and he was thankful for his decision as
he surely would have had more trouble finding it in the darkness. In fact, he might not have even come at all
had the young man not sounded so urgent in his request. He had instantly wanted to know more about
what exactly he was dealing with, but given their nature, he felt it best to
arrive and then be filled in on the specifics of the problem.
As the Jeep rounded a corner, the small white
house appeared off to his right. The
sun-soaked and faded siding and absence of several shutters made the dwelling
fit well with the rest of the surroundings.
The grass was knee high, and several dilapidated cars of varying ages
sat around the property. Either the
owners were not wealthy, or they just did not care much about appearances, but
that was not for him to judge. These
people lived their lives as they did, and that was their business.
He pulled to a stop and slowly and methodically
exited the Jeep. A dog barked somewhere
nearby, startling him with a low-guttural tone that made him think the beast
was of a large and mean breed, which only served to increase his
reservations. He hoped the animal was on
a leash or tied up, as he was far too feeble to fight it off.
Reaching into the passenger seat, he grasped
for his ornate wooden cane. It took
several attempts to retrieve it, but once he had the handle in his grip and the
end firmly planted on the ground, he felt a little more at ease. He could walk without it if necessary, but he
preferred the comfort of having something to lean on when he grew tired, as he
did so often as of late.
“Hello, Mr. Barakat!”
The paunchy old man turned to the voice and
squinted as an icy cool wind struck his face and stung his eyes. It took him several moments before he spotted
the much younger man descending a small set of steps from the dilapidated porch
off to the side of the house. As the
young man approached, he could see that he was barely older than a child, only
in his early twenties, and he wore a black smock and black casual dress pants
with cuffs around the ankles. His brown
hair was neatly combed to the side, and he had on thick glasses with large
black frames.
“Do you need any assistance with anything in
your vehicle, Mr. Barakat?” He
approached quickly and shook the old man’s hand. His manner was respectful yet urgent.
“No, no, I’m fine. I’ll send someone out for it if it is
needed.”
Taking the elderly man gently by the elbow, he
replied, “Very well, then. I’m Wilson
Potter, and this is my home. Welcome,
and thank you so much for coming. You
can’t imagine how relieved we are to see you.”
Mr. Barakat nodded and, feeling a little less
wary, allowed the young man to lead him up the stairs and onto the porch. He took each step one at a time and was
nearly out of breath by the time he reached the top. Leaning heavily on his cane, he rested for
several seconds, peering out at the thick forest surrounding the home.
Wilson waited patiently for him to catch his
breath, and when the old man appeared ready, he led Mr. Barakat into the house
and into a small dining room. He pulled
out a heavy oak chair for his guest, and the older man slowly lowered himself
into it and rested with a heavy sigh.
As the Mr. Barakat glanced around briefly, he
noticed that the house was sparsely furnished and rustic, just as the outside
had appeared. The home, both outside and
in, did little to shed light on why Wilson Potter had summoned him.
“Mr. Barakat, can I get you something to
drink? Water, or tea or coffee,
perhaps?”
Mr. Barakat cleared his throat to speak,
coughed twice loudly and violently, and then gruffly said, “Tea or coffee would
be fine. Whatever you have.”
A thin pale woman appeared from a small room
off to the side of the dining room, and she introduced herself as Helen. He shook her hand politely, and she excused
herself, turned, and hurried off down the hall.
He then waited patiently for Wilson to bring him his beverage.
A few minutes passed until the young man
brought in a steaming hot cup and sat it down on a saucer in front of him. “Tea,” he said. “Do you need milk, or honey and sugar or
anything like that?”
Mr. Barakat smiled and replied, “Oh, some honey
and sugar would be delightful. Thank
you.”
Wilson scampered back out of the room again,
and Mr. Barakat couldn’t help but notice the chips and cracks in the saucer and
cup. As he had deduced earlier, these
people were either poor or just did not believe in material possessions. Either way, Mr. Barakat would thank them and
treat them kindly. They needed his help,
and that’s what he was here to provide.
These were his type of people as well, especially if they did have money
but chose not to spend it on lavish items.
Simple and modest.
The young man returned a few moments later with
a small glass jar of honey and several sugar packets. He sat them on the table near the old man’s
mug and then pulled out a chair adjacent to him.
“You had no trouble finding the place?”
Mr. Barakat smiled thinly, but he responded, “A
little. I won’t lie; it wasn’t the
easiest driveway to find. Miles and
miles of woodland and then a barely visible dirt road? I’m not sure I would have been able to find
it in the dark.”
Wilson frowned and nodded. “Yes, I apologize for asking you to do that
at first, Mr. Barakat. We just don’t
like our neighbors knowing too much about us.”
Mr. Barakat nodded. “Yes, I understand. It’s fine.”
He slowly and methodically added a dollop of
honey and two packets of sugar to his tea.
“I can’t recall if I’ve ever been to these parts. If I have, it hasn’t been for many, many
years. When I was a lad a bit younger
than you, I think my father may have brought me through here, although I can’t
say for certain.”
Wilson seemed to perk up a little at this
revelation. “You were visiting
someone? You knew people from around
here?”
Mr. Barakat began to laugh softly but then
broke out into a coughing fit that rattled his entire body. He reached for his cup of tea, but seeing
that it was still too hot, withdrew his free hand as he coughed into the
other. Wilson jumped up and returned
with a glass of water, and Mr. Barakat took it and quickly drank down
half. He continued to cough for several
more minutes before the fit finally subsided.
Observing him with concern, Wilson uttered,
“I’m sorry to drag you out here, Mr. Barakat.”
“Oh well, it’s not too much of a problem—at
least yet, anyway. But as I was about to
say, I grew up in Salamanca, New York, and we would travel down this way from
time to time to trade with the Amish and Mennonite people that lived in these
parts.”
Wilson frowned, but then he quickly nodded and
looked away. Mr. Barakat keenly noticed
his expressions and grinned.
“Not the type of people you would expect me to
be associated with, I take it?”
“Oh, no, Sir.
I mean, no, I didn’t imply that.
I mean, well, yes, I suppose it seems a little odd.”
Mr. Barakat continued to smile. He was thoroughly enjoying the young man’s
perplexed state.
Helen came into the room suddenly and sat down
at the table. She had applied a minimal
amount of makeup and had changed into a conservative blouse and black
dress. Her long, black, curly hair hung
down neatly, and she appeared intent and ready to join in on their
conversation.
“Mr. and Mrs. Potter, you will come to a point
in time in your lives when you realize that nothing alarms you. Nothing can shake your convictions. You’ve pretty much seen and done it all, and
if you haven’t, it probably wasn’t worth seeing or doing. But before you get that far, you must realize
that when something odd or different or alarming comes along, you must never
ostracize it. Rather, you must learn
from it, embrace it, and use it to your advantage.”
They looked at the old man, slightly puzzled,
and nodded pleasantly. He could sense
that neither of them seemed to fully comprehend the meaning of his words.
“What I’m trying to explain to you is that you,
being of devout faith to our following and ideals, will recognize that all the
world is filled with people, and even though we teach our kind to mind
ourselves and live free, we must recognize that others do still exist, and that
they may serve a purpose for us, even if their ideals are quite the opposite of
what we believe. We shouldn’t turn our
backs on others—we should use them to acquire those things that we desire. That is our way.”
Mr. Barakat eyed each of them as they both
smiled and nodded again. They seemed to
understand this statement a little better than the first. This was a test, whether they knew it or not,
and so far they were passing—but just barely.
“So, on to the matter at hand. I understand, from your message, that you are
the leader of the Grotto of this area.”
Wilson nodded slowly. “Well, yes, Sir. I guess I’ve been unofficially leading a
group of nine of us for the past few months.
Mr. Barakat took a small sip of tea and stared
at Wilson, silently commanding him to continue.
“Oh…umm…yes, we’ve been meeting several times a
month for the past three or four years.
We were formerly led by Reverend Silvio Palomino, but he passed away
just recently.”
“Oh, Silvio?
From Philadelphia? I did not know
he had relocated to this area. He’s
dead?”
“You knew him?”
“Yes, although I hadn’t spoken with him in many
years. Probably a decade, now that I
think about it. We worked together back
in San Francisco prior to meeting Anton.”
Wilson and Helen glanced at each other and
smiled, briefly. Mr. Barakat was bemused
by their reaction. They apparently had
had doubts that he was the real deal.
Casting his eyes down toward his lap, Wilson
softly explained, “Yes, we all loved Silvio very much. He was a father to all of us.”
“I
hadn’t known that Silvio passed. He was
fifteen or twenty years younger than me, though. In his late fifties? Was he ill?”
“He was killed in a car accident, Mr.
Barakat. A drunk driver.”
The old man frowned. “That’s a shame. He was a decent man. I offer my sympathies, and I’ll have to stop
by his grave before I depart. Now then,
what is the reason for my being here?”
Wilson glanced at Helen again, and he bit his
lip as if chewing on it would help him find the words he struggled to say.
“Mr.
Barakat,” replied Helen, apparently taking over in light of her husband’s
inability to voice their concerns.
“Yes, young lady. What is it?”
“Well,” she said, “we are questioning our
allegiance to the Church.”
The elderly man elicited a slightly comical
frown. This was not what he had
expected.
“I’m sorry?
You mean to say you are starting to question our tenets?”
The two glanced at each other again, and Wilson
replied, “Sir, there is something you need to see.”
Mr. Barakat was growing impatient, but he
complied. They all stood up, and he
followed Wilson out a rear door and into the unkempt back yard. The sun was beginning its descent from the sky,
and Mr. Barakat noted the time on his watch.
He had expected this to only take a fraction of an hour, and he was
hoping to be long gone from this area by sunset.
As they walked slowly down a barely
recognizable path through the back yard, Mr. Barakat saw that they were
approaching a small woodshed. A battered
red and silver wood axe leaned against the side of the shed, and a heavy silver
chain held the door shut. The windows
had all been boarded over as well, and Mr. Barakat could easily see that the
chain and boards were newer additions to the older structure. They quite obviously did not want anyone
seeing or gaining access to what they had inside.
“I am not here to play games, children. I’ve driven a long way. What in the world could be in this structure
that would have anything to do with me?”
Wilson turned and looked at Mr. Barakat, and
the fear in his eyes, clearly evident, indicated that they obviously had
stumbled upon something that rattled their beliefs.
“Before I open this, Sir, I just want you to
know that what is in here seems to go against everything we’ve believed and
have been taught and instructed. We have
been devout followers of the Church of Satan.
We are true atheists and have never believed in a higher power. We know that the only God is ourselves, and
we have never questioned those ideas.
There is no afterlife. There is
no God. There are no such things as
angels or ghosts or devils.”
“Yes, yes.
That’s all very good, Mr. Potter.
So what, you are going to show me proof that the Church’s teachings are
false? You are going to show me a
miracle or something of the sort? Son,
Christianity has been doing that since its inception—long before the Satanic
Church came to be.”
His tone was becoming very sarcastic and
disrespectful, but he had already made up his mind that whatever these two had
to show him was a waste of his time. He
did not come here to be mocked. He was a
fourth degree Magus. He had worked
directly under the Order of the Trapezoid since its beginnings in San Francisco
a few years prior. He was now the
highest ranking member of the Church of Satan this side of the Mississippi.
“Sir, please just look. If you can tell us what this is, then we will
be most relieved. But we have no
explanation, and, quite frankly, it scares us.
No, it terrifies us.”
The old man leaned heavily upon his cane, but
he motioned for them to open the doors to the woodshed. He wanted to get this over with so that he
could get back and contact High Priest LaVey to have these idiots removed as
active members.
Wilson pulled out a large key and inserted it
into the lock that secured the two end links.
He undid the heavy metal chain slowly and then tossed it to the ground.
As he began to pull open the door, Wilson
explained, “We found it—sleeping, we think—in the woods. We chained it up and locked it in here. It hasn’t been fed since…well…since we put it
in here two weeks ago.”
Mr. Barakat scoffed. “So it’s dead of starvation, then. Is that what you’re telling me? What is ‘it’, exactly?”
As Wilson pulled open the rickety door slowly,
deliberately, the sunlight shone brightly into the shed. Mr. Barakat peered in, looking from left to
right before seeing the pale figure huddled in the corner facing away from
them, only his naked and bony back visible in the light, the skin hanging on
his body like melted wax. His pants were
ragged and torn, and his bare feet were caked with mud. A brownish substance seemed to cover parts of
his torso, although it was difficult to see what it could be.
Without a doubt, though, it was a man. A human being.
As Mr. Barakat turned in anger toward the
couple, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the man moved, scurrying away
from the light. Not only was he not
dead, but he seemed to move with the fluidity of a teenager or young child
despite his appearance.
“You have a…a person in there?” His eyes searched Wilson’s face for an
answer, and he instantly became wary as he began questioning their
motives. Where these people murderers? Had they invited him here to chain him up as
well? Torture him? Were they Christian zealots disguising
themselves as Satanists with grandiose intentions of kidnapping him in the name
of their God?
Mr. Barakat glanced over toward Helen, afraid
that she would be holding the axe or a gun and motioning him into the
shed. Instead, though, she held nothing,
just staring at the filthy and grotesque man inside. Wilson had even taken a few steps back and
still seemed frightened—even more so now than he had before. Whatever was going on here, they were
absolutely terrified of the individual they had locked up in this shed.
Pointing to the pale man huddled in the corner,
Wilson urgently stated, “Sir, that’s not a man.”
Mr. Barakat shifted his poor eyes back to more
closely examine the individual. The
emaciated man was certainly aware that they were there watching him, and he
seemed frightened as well. He shivered
several times violently, and Mr. Barakat realized that he had no other clothing
or covering to protect him from the chill.
How in the world had he survived two weeks with no warmth or food? What was wrong with these people?
“Sir, are you OK? What is your name?”
Mr. Barakat took a few tentative steps closer
when the man turned abruptly and made a savage guttural noise at him. His face—its face—was twisted into a horribly
disfigured and grotesque mask. The eyes,
black as coal, stared back, large unnatural shadows hanging under them. The skin, not just pale but a faint bluish
tint, seemed to be hanging off of its bony face. It looked like a man, or what would have once
been a man, after he had been dead and buried for several weeks. In other words, it resembled a corpse.
Suddenly its long and wiry arms reached out and
clawed at the old man, and as he back-pedaled, his legs gave out and he toppled
backwards onto the ground, crying out as pain overcame him from nearly all over
his eighty-year-old body. The creature
was chained to the back wall of the shed, and Mr. Barakat was just safely out
of its reach, but it tried over and over to grab ahold of him, clawing and
scratching at the dirt, hissing incomprehensible threats.
“What in the hell is that thing?” screamed the
old man as he recoiled in horror and pain.
Wilson ran up to help Mr. Barakat, but as he
hooked his hands under the old man’s armpits and began pulling him backwards,
the monster pulled hard at his bindings and began bending the links in the
chains. It was furiously strong, and it
stretched the chains just enough to reach its slender, bony hand out and grab
the old man by the ankle.
Wilson pulled hard, but to his surprise and
dismay, he saw Mr. Barakat’s expression change.
At first he thought the elderly man was just shocked or frightened by
the ghoul’s grasp, but then he realized that his guest was in severe,
unequivocable agony. He seemed to be
having a heart attack as his face had turned pale white and his entire body
became limp.
“Helen!” cried Wilson. “Help!
Help, dammit!”
She had grabbed the axe from outside and ran up
to swing at the creature’s arm, but it turned its dark, soulless eyes on her
and screeched. Hearing the horrible sound
it made, she stopped, frozen in fear, and could only stare as the horrific
scene unfolded before her.
Suddenly Mr. Barakat reached up and grabbed
Wilson loosely by the hair. He had
turned ghostly pale, his strength nearing depletion. Looking up into the young man’s eyes and with
his last dying breath he whispered, “Burn us.
Burn us both.”
Wilson scrambled backward out the door and
watched in horror as the creature pulled Mr. Barakat into the corner. Wilson had been staring at the now lifeless
body of the old man, and he waited fearfully for the creature to rip into the
man’s flesh. When the creature didn’t
though, and he looked closer, he saw that the monster was instead staring back
at him, almost as if it knew him or recognized him. Its eyes were black and cold like icy death,
but there was a familiarity to them that was inexplicable and terrifying.
It hissed something at him. A word.
Was it? No. It couldn’t have been…
His name?
Wilson grabbed the heavy shed door, and as he
swung it closed, he heard the creature hiss his name again.
“Willlssssson.”
Slamming the door shut, he turned to look for
his wife and was shocked to find that she had already grabbed a can of gasoline
and begun dousing the shed.
“Helen, wait!
We don’t know what that thing is!
We can’t just kill it!”
Turning to look at her husband, trembling with
fright, she replied, “Yes, we have to!
Mr. Barakat said we have to! It’s
a demon, Wilson! It’s the living back
from the dead!”
Before he could say another word, she lit a
match and tossed it onto the shed, watching the flames shoot up the side like
little wicked tongues, determined to erase the monstrosity and dead old man
inside from existence.
“Helen, you don’t understand! I think that was him!”
She stood back, watching the fire engulf the
small structure, and turned to face her husband again. “Who?” she asked, as she folded her arms
across her chest, hugging herself for comfort but finding none.
“I think that thing was Reverend Silvio!”
She shivered, either from the chill of the
afternoon or the horror they’d just witnessed, and ran to her husband’s
arms. They both stood together, crying
and watching the structure burn. The
paint on the walls blistered and the shingles on the roof began to fall inward
as the blaze grew.
Less than a half an hour passed before the
small shed had burned to the ground, leaving nothing left but ashes and the
everlasting memories of the horror they’d just witnessed.
