Fright Night: Hellbound, page 10
“Haden!” Tomas called out, his voice carrying shrill notes brought forth by pain, forcing them all to turn. “I…might need a hand getting to the car. My foot’s shot to hell.”
Renfold glanced back, eyebrow raised. “And how’d you manage that, son?”
“It was the damn basement,” Tomas said quickly. “Slipped on a rock down there. You should get those cleared out. Felt like someone was digging a tunnel.” He gave a strained laugh. Billy only leered at him, the kind of smile that promised he’d heard every word.
The group moved for their vehicles. Engines coughed, headlights carved through the mist, and the convoy eased away. From the doorway, Jerry watched with Billy at his side, the others fanned out behind him. He bit into an apple, the crunch carrying in the quiet street, and raised a hand in a casual wave as the taillights sank into the fog.
“Holy fucking Christ,” Paulo exhaled a sigh of relief.
“I wouldn’t want to go through that again,” Tomas grunted.
“What’s the range on the trigger?” Lars asked.
“Not far enough! Around five hundred feet if we’re in plain sight and we’re lucky. Right now, let's thank our lucky stars that the police showed up. If I hadn’t fired a bullet into that blithering creature, they wouldn’t have,” Haden said, the strain lifting from his voice a little. Now that they were out in the open, away from the vampires, he was regaining his self-assurance one step at a time.
“So what now?” Jonatan asked.
“We lay low. The plan to blow the house up in the morning has now been somewhat fucked thanks to the cops. A dichotomy if ever there was one.”
“We can’t let them live, Haden. What if we set off the bombs in another hour or two?”
“They won’t be home. I don’t doubt that they’ll head out and start feeding for the night, and given how we’ve rubbed them the wrong way, I can hazard that we’ll be on their fucking menu. I’d suggest that we sleep in the church tonight and continue our plan in the morning. For if we don’t, then we all have to find a new place to live by sundown, and like I said, vampires are vengeful bastards. They’ll come looking for us wherever we are.”
“Think there’s anything to worry about?” Billy asked.
Jerry leaned against the frame, thoughtful. “Hard to say. They came here with a purpose, but I don’t know what. They can thank whatever God they pray to that they didn’t go into the tunnel.”
“What about the grimoire?”
He shook his head. “No. Haden knows I’d never leave that behind.”
“Then maybe let’s pay them a visit. Take flight.”
Jerry smiled faintly. “No. They’ve had their warning.”
Billy snorted. “Told you Jimmy wouldn’t do much good.”
“Jimmy was supposed to devour them and enter that tunnel once he was finished.”
“You give that thing too much credit. It’s always been a liability.”
Jerry let the smile fade. “Perhaps. But it’s devoured plenty in its time. I’ll check the loft again myself. And Billy, plan B was the right call.”
Haden and the crew pulled over beside the church on the road toward the station. The cop cars were silent, there not being the need for the blaring blue and red signals above any longer. Two of the cars continued on as Officer Renfold pulled up behind the truck. His tires released a small screech as the white sedan came to a pause.
“Thank you for accompanying us here,” Haden said to Renfold, leaning on his car mirror as if he had the authority to do so.
“Don’t sweat it. I owed you one, after all,” Renfold replied as Haden tapped the roof of the car and began to walk away. “But hey, Haden… Why the church?”
“I need to pay an old ghost a visit.”
The cruiser idled a moment, then pulled away, its lights dwindling down the road.
The hunters stood quiet as the medieval church hung over them. The building felt protective yet daunting at the same time, as if once inside, they could never leave for fear of being devoured. In front of them, a dozen or so stone steps that looked like they’d carried the confessions of half the town for centuries beckoned them in. Large red doors set in an arched frame were the only solace between the hunters and the vampires, and the men didn’t stall in crossing the threshold to safety.
“Come on, come on, come in!” Haden signaled with urgency as the group looked back to ensure no vampires were following them.
Inside, the church was lit by candlelight. It was large, immaculate, and ornate. Every window glass stained, every detail thought out. The wooden pews flanked the aisle; at the end, a marble altar commanded the room, and above it, a gold cross with Jesus crucified on it. The group was tired. Jonatan walked around the church trying to find a back area with a kitchen, somewhere he could grab some water for everyone. Tomas had his ankle dipped in the holy water basin, and Lars, Paulo, and Haden sat around each other in one of the pews closer to the altar. They whispered as they talked about their next move.
“Where do these things come from?” Paulo asked.
“Paulo, we’ve seen these things before, and does the answer ever change? They are born straight from Hell, from the Devil himself.”
“So all of this is real, huh? As above, so below? God on high, the Devil down nigh?” Jonatan chimed in.
“There are things in our world that we cannot comprehend. Different dimensions, different Devils, different universes. By God, there’s things that the Vatican has brushed under its many velvet carpets that if you found out, you wouldn’t sleep a wink again in your life,” Haden said grimly, staring at the statue of Jesus on a stone cross, Christ’s mournful eyes looking down at him, the marble sculpted into beads to indicate blood dripping down the crown of thorns.
“Where did he come from? Jerry?” Tomas asked, still soaking his foot. “He doesn’t feel like the others.”
Haden leaned back in the pew, his eyes still fixed on the crucifix above the altar. He didn’t answer right away. A cold wind scraped against the stained glass, howling as if the vampires were hovering outside. A chorus of heads turned to look at the window before diverting their attention back to Haden.
“He’s not,” he said. “He was once human. But centuries ago, during the time of Vlad the Impaler, he immersed himself in occult and esotericism, which culminated in him summoning something that should’ve been left well enough alone. A fallen Watcher by the name of Samyara. It gave Jerry what he craved most—power, eternal life, and knowledge forbidden even to the angels.”
“Why?” Paulo asked. “Why would anyone want that?”
“Before he was a vampire,” Haden said, “he was a nobleman by the name of Gellert cel Catura. I believe they fought together, but they had disagreements on how to fight. Gellert… Sorry, Jerry, was actually the nicer of the two. Vlad was the reckless one. Jerry was calculating. Vlad enjoyed carnage and menace. Jerry preferred meticulousness. Guess which one all the history books make mention of? Jerry learned early on that the best camouflage is discretion, and it has allowed him to live as secretly as he’s done all these centuries.”
Jonatan looked down and Paulo said nothing.
“Christ,” Lars mumbled, as if expecting the figure on the cross would respond.
Haden continued, “Gellert was a rich man even back then, before he became a vampire. And one can even imagine him living a normal life, one with a loving wife and a sprawling palatial estate. Back then, Vlad wanted it all, money, power and fame. His soldiers tore through anything that was in their way, and unfortunately that meant Gellert too, while he was away in Buda. They took his castle, raped the servants, burned the chapel, and—” He stopped himself, jaw flexing. “They found his wife. She slit her wrists before they could have their way with her. When Gellert returned, all that was left was ash and the bloodstained silk of her nightdress.”
Tomas slowly looked up.
“From what I know, Gellert did not cry,” Haden continued. “And he most certainly didn’t bury her. He burned everything. Every relic. Every symbol of God. And then he locked himself in the ruined crypt beneath the chapel. He opened every book he’d ever collected—pagan, Sumerian, Babylonian—and he began the rites.”
“What rites?” Jonatan asked.
“Dark rites written by those taken by despair, rites of blood magic, witchcraft, black rituals, whatever you want to call it,” Haden whispered, each word shaky, his fingers trembling against the pew’s back. “Summoning spirits, raising the dead, selling your soul in return for favors from the hellbound. It is when a man feels like he’s got nothing left to lose, and all redemption is beyond him, that he turns to this.”
Tomas leaned forward. “So he summoned Samyara?”
“He did,” Haden said. “A shadow in the dark appeared to him with a voice that would make your knees go soft. It offered him power, immortality, vengeance. But with one price.”
He looked at each of them.
“He would never know love again. The love he found in his wife, the demon used against him. Jerry was so devastated, he never wanted to love another human. He only wanted his wife, and he wanted revenge. Alas, the memory of his true love would stay. The heartache too. But the ability to feel it, to feel anything but hunger and rage, would be gone. Jerry would be damned to a life of finding his true love over and over, only for her to die.”
“Jesus Christ,” Paulo whispered.
“He agreed,” Haden said. “Without hesitation. The next morning, Gellert no longer existed, and Jerry was born from dirt, forced to feed on the blood of the living to survive. Never again would his skin touch the sun either.”
An air of silence washed over the men. Except Jonatan, these men had been in supernatural battles before, but never received the answers to their deepest questions. The how’s and why’s of the underworld.
After a moment, Tomas asked, “Did you hear about the grimoire?”
Haden shifted his head slightly. “What do you know about that?”
“I’ve heard the name,” Tomas said. “Roman archives mention books tied to the beings they choose. A book that isn’t read as much as it reads you.”
“This one is worse,” Haden said. “It’s sentient, bound in human skin. It speaks to you, through visions, voices, compulsions. It shows you the outcome before you even act. And if it likes you…it changes its ink.”
“What does that mean?” Jonatan asked.
“It rewrites itself,” Haden said. “It adapts to the wielder, blood spilled becomes ink. And it’s old. Older than the Bible. Older than language. We think these books came from the East, before Babylon, maybe even Sumer.”
“And Jerry has a grimoire?” Tomas asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Haden nodded.
“He keeps it close. You’ll never find it lying out in the open. If I had to guess, it’s not even on this plane half the time. He pulls it through when he needs it. Like a tether between this world and something far worse.”
“Can we destroy it?” Tomas asked.
Haden shrugged. “Everything can. Untransmutable laws of physics are on our side. But I dread to think what would happen if this book got into the hands of the wrong person. You know, all that Newtonian jazz—energy not being able to be created or destroyed, but being capable of transferring from one form to another.”
“And Jerry?” Paulo asked. “Can he be destroyed? Laws of physics still on our side with that one?”
Haden turned his eyes to the crucifix.
“Of course, though not laws of physics as much as laws of death and undeath. Tonight, as I was in that basement, I looked hard for his grimoire. I wouldn’t want to yield the power myself, but I know of a witch that I’d trust with it.”
The church creaked around them. Somewhere in the rafters, a pigeon fluttered, causing the men to look above and the waft of incense to dance around the church hall.
“That’s why you must not think of it as a mere hunt,” Haden said. “It’s containment. If Jerry is killed and the grimoire finds someone new…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“What does the book want?” Paulo asked, as the conversation transitioned from catching a vampire to the grimoire.
“Chaos,” Haden said defeatedly. “Desire. Evolution through suffering. It doesn’t want a quiet world. It wants one that burns, because fire clears the land for something new.”
“And if we kill Jerry?” Jonatan shifted uncomfortably.
“We pray the book doesn’t choose one of us. Now, everyone try and get some sleep. Tomorrow we go to war.”
The five a.m. morning rays of light bled through the stained-glass windows, slicing the gloom of the church into fractured rainbows that dripped across the pews like blood through a prism. The five men stirred slowly from sleep, sore and crumpled in their jackets. The pews creaked beneath them as dust danced in the golden shafts of dawn. But one figure was already awake.
She sat silently next to Haden, robed in black, her white veil bright against the light. In her hands she cradled a vial, a fat, bulbous object with metal banding around the neck and a wax seal pressed into its lid. Her eyes weren’t on them, but on the far right of the altar. It was Paulo who noticed her first, his breath hitching as he elbowed Lars awake.
Haden opened his eyes slowly, a twitch behind his forehead, his neck crooked and aching. He sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. The nun smiled at him.
“Le génie du mal,” she said, her voice a hallowed whisper.
Haden followed her gaze to the marble statue in the corner—the horned Lucifer, cast down and chained, half-buried in flowing robes, his body muscular, his wings furled around him.
“The genius of evil,” he said, watching her carefully.
“Indeed,” she whispered, then turned to him and pressed the vial into his palm. Her grip was firmer than he’d anticipated.
“You’ll need this,” she said. “But not for when you think you will.”
He looked down at the vial. The liquid inside shimmered unnaturally, refracting light in a way holy water never did.
“What is it?” he asked, some part of him already knowing the nun wouldn’t answer.
The nun didn’t respond. Her gaze returned to the statue.
“Beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?” Haden said, trying to gauge her.
“A heavy distraction.” Her voice echoed slightly. “Just what Lucifer would want. Look too long, and you forget the true danger is always behind you.”
“Who is she?” Paulo whispered to Lars from the pew behind them.
“No one important,” the nun responded without turning around to face them.
The church suddenly got darker, the vault around them blackening as the sun dipped behind clouds outside. The group looked around as if a force had entered the church with them.
“He’ll flee to another land if you don’t stop him. Find the book and you’ll know what to do. But be warned, it knows what scares you, it can reach into the very depth of your soul, read your secrets, your innermost desires. A book such as this, it will lie to you, trick you to get what it wants,” she said, her voice firmer now, stronger.
From the shadows at the edge of the nave came soft, broken cries. The sobs were muffled but carried through the cavernous hall, bouncing from stone to stone until it felt like the walls themselves were grieving. The men turned toward the entrance. Five nuns drifted into view, their habits brushing the ground though their feet never touched it. Their faces were hidden, lost in folds of cloth, and still the sound poured from them—a chorus of quiet weeping. Their hands were locked in prayer, fingers rigid, and the farther they floated down the aisle, the clearer it became that nothing cast a shadow.
“I must go now,” the nun stated as she rose to join in the floating procession, effortlessly entwining herself in the movement of the ethereal nuns.
The men watched as they floated toward the altar, their eyes locked on the women. Until a large horn outside rattled all of them, prompting them to look back toward the entrance.
“The truck!” Lars shouted.
And as they looked back to the altar, the nuns weren’t there anymore.
Outside, Lars was bartering with the tow truck company that was attempting to remove the vehicle from the front of the church steps.
“How did you stop him from towing the car?” Paulo asked.
“I knew him, old buddy of mine.” Lars laughed back.
“Of course you did.” Paulo chuckled.
“Okay, so what now?” Tomas asked Haden.
Morning light did little to clear the fog in their heads. The pews were cold, their backs sore. After everything that had happened, the adrenaline had worn off, and all that was left was doubt. The plan had been bold. And now, after the fire at the docks and the surprise arrival of the police, they were on the radar. If they went ahead with destroying the brownstone, they wouldn’t just be vampire hunters, they’d be arsonists. Murder suspects. Fugitives in a city where they had built roots.
They could all feel it coming, the comedown.
“We continue with the plan. If we stop now, we’ll not only be dead, the vampires will continue their reign of terror in the city,” Haden stated, each word seeped in grave understanding of the severity of the mission that lay ahead.
“Professor, I’ve got one thing I want to say. Let’s blow these fucks up!" Lars said.
The truck started with ease. Its window shattered from Billy’s blow. All five men climbed inside and Lars started the ignition, putting the gear shift into first. He pressed the clutch with his left foot, slowly lifting in unison with the accelerator pedal. The truck rolled off quietly from the front of the church as they made their way to breakfast.
Fred’s Café sat on the corner of Brouwersgracht and Prinsengracht, with a deep red awning stretched above the windows, its fabric still wet with dew. The glass beneath glowed with an amber light that spilled out, warm against the grey of the street.
