Fires Rising Read online

  FIRES RISING

  Michael Laimo

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2011 Michael Laimo

  Copy-edited by: Darren Pulsford

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

  Background Images provided by:

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  Atmosphere

  The Demonologist

  Deep in the Darkness

  Sleepwalker

  COLLECTIONS:

  Demons, Freaks, and Other Abnormalities

  Dregs of Society

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  Prologue

  On the Upper West Side of Manhattan in 1892, twilight gathered.

  The October sunset tossed its ruby rays across the hog farms and uncultivated lands. Small clusters of huts flanking Central Park stood firmly against the cold winds. Their occupants, too poor to afford housing in the heavily populated downtown area, shivered and prayed for better days.

  Twenty blocks to the south and a little farther east, the more fortunate settled into the new brownstones built alongside older wood-and-frame buildings. Sporadic gas lamps lined the curb, tossing gloomy circles of light upon the footpaths. Horse-drawn carriages meandered crookedly along hay-covered streets, people pacing silently along, men in long suits and derby hats, women garbed in dresses and gossamer veils. The air reeked of coal smoke and horse manure.

  It was here that nearly one hundred men had come down from the hovels and settled into a pocket of land, working endless days and nights building the church of their hopes and dreams.

  Layer by layer, brick by brick, they constructed the wooden framework from the ground up. Outside, beyond the walls that offered them the security they'd worked so hard to institute, children carried out menial tasks in exchange for fruit and water. The women mixed oils and painted tapestries, soon to be adorned upon the walls of the church.

  Three miles away at the seaport, two men who not hours earlier had toiled inside the newly built rectory, stood at the edge of an arched-brick warehouse that extended all the way to the wharf.

  To the east of the pier stood the sailor's lodging houses. To the west, grog shops and marine cellars, their exterior lanterns tossing garish red lights onto the foggy streets. Many of the buildings here were of a Neo-Gothic design, adorned with stonework cornices and vaulted beams.

  The ship the two men were told to locate loomed before them, not much different looking than the warehouse it had unloaded its cargo into. Behind them, the doors to the warehouse opened. A shop worker appeared whose moustache and beard were as unruly as the rats skittering about the docks.

  He nodded to the two men.

  The men peered at the wooden sign over the door—Pier 13 it read in painted black lettering—and followed him inside.

  A pair of electric bulbs encased in metal cages illuminated the entranceway, casting a dim glow onto the wood floor. The two men followed their bearded guide down a dusty corridor lined with dingy windows that looked out into an alleyway. The corridor led into a small room, empty save for a wooden fruitwood crate that lay in the center of the room, waxed rope handles anchored into its sides.

  The two men walked to the crate and examined the dark Latin phrase etched into its surface: Castigo laudible, corpus meum…

  The man with the beard gave them a manifest, for which they were told to sign. Although the monsignor told them that the shipment was to have come from Italy—a gift from the Pope himself—the manifest read Jerusalem.

  They questioned the accuracy of the cargo.

  The bearded man told them to touch the crate.

  They did so, and in seconds realized that the cargo was indeed meant for them, for their church. The men looked at each other in amazement, their hands still tingling from the warmth emanating from the polished wood. The bearded man handed one of the men a sealed document meant for the monsignor, which he stealthily pocketed. This, the monsignor had told him, would be read at their next service, prior to bestowing the gift of the crate upon the parishioners.

  Each man grabbed a roped handle, and exited back out onto the pier.

  They walked at an even pace, passing a multitude of shops, now closed as the sun began to set behind the river. They turned and walked north through the lower stretches of the Bowery. Their senses thrived to the sounds around them, to the clanking horseshoes, the yelling and shouting and singing of distant song, to the horses that whinnied and snorted. The air was charged with the foul stenches of barnacles and horse dung.

  They walked farther uptown. Here the streets were filled with bobbing derby hats and crossing horse-buggies. Trams lurched down the center of the road like charging bulls. Street peddlers lined the narrow sidewalks, exulting their current trade to those within earshot, be it pans or apples or steamers.

  Each man gripped the rope-handles tightly, the warmth from within somehow providing them with the strength and fortitude to continue unhindered by fatigue. They kept their gazes straight ahead, their minds focused solely on transporting the gift to their church.

  They turned the corner. Above, the elevated train platform towered over them, dark oil and slimy ash coating the underside. The train awaited their arrival, black smoke unfurling from its stack, darkening the evening air. The men quickened their pace and climbed the steps to the platform, where they paid a two-cent fare and entered the train. The doors closed seconds later, the wheels squealed, and they were on their way uptown.

  Around them, passengers chatted in clutches, undoubtedly wondering who the two ill-dressed men were, and why they were holding such a fine looking crate. Did this crate hold a valuable prize? One worth fighting for, perhaps?

  At Forty-Second Street, the men disembarked and boarded a streetcar for a penny each, where they rode to Seventy-Sixth Street, three blocks from their church.

  Astoundingly, the final three blocks of their journey found them with more strength and vigor than they'd experienced in all their days as adult men. Their blood rushed furiously, hearts pounding to keep the pace. A wealth of sudden happiness fell into them, and they both understood that this crate (and its contents) was indeed an empowering gift from God, one that would allow their church to stand tall and powerful for many years to come.

  They entered the church and paced down the center aisle, its plywood flooring soon to be covered with a donation of marble from a local factory owner. The men approached the altar, where the monsignor stood in prayer.

  He smiled. "Bring the gift into the rectory."

  The man with the sealed document handed it to the monsignor, and the pair moved into the rectory with the crate.

  Everyone was gathered inside; the men who'd constructed the church, the women who’d painted the walls, the children who ran errands. There were a hundred and fifty people, perhaps more, standing around a ditch that had been dug deep into the earth's foundation.

  The men carried the crate to the edge of
the hole. They placed it down before the waiting priests. Soon after, the monsignor entered and stood alongside the priests. He opened the sealed document and began reciting its contents, written in Latin.

  A minute later, when he finished reading, he said, "We have been bestowed a gift of great importance. We will protect it and in turn it will bring our church great strength. Its contents shall never be revealed. It will remain here buried beneath our church for as long as it stands."

  The monsignor walked to the men who delivered the gift from downtown. "Do you feel its strength, its power?"

  Indeed, the men did. They nodded.

  "And so all here today shall benefit from its holy power."

  Under the watchful guidance of the monsignor, each man, woman, and child took turns touching the crate. Everyone could feel its warmth, its gift of empowerment. They walked away, staring deeply into their flexing hands, utterly aware of the strength and spirit granted to them.

  When all had taken their turn, the monsignor led the congregation in prayer. Afterwards, he instructed a group of men to lower the crate into the ditch. A number of men jumped into the hole, while two others grabbed the rope handles and lifted it over the edge…

  One of the men holding the crate lost his footing, and fell into the hole. The other man made every effort to hold onto the crate's handle but it slid free of his grasp. The crate tumbled over the edge and hurtled to the bottom of the hole with a loud crack. The lid broke open, and its contents fell free for all to see…

  48 hours later

  The boy, who'd turned twelve years old a week earlier, followed his mother through a dark corridor.

  Both were crying.

  They rushed into a small basement room that resembled a cell. A wooden table and lone chair sat in the center of the pale stone floor. A pair of burning candles set atop the table cast flickering lights against their frightened faces. The woman sat her son in the chair and kneeled down before him.

  She swallowed hard and spoke in a frantic whisper. "Do you see what is happening? What will happen to the rest of the world should you not do what I ask of you?"

  Trembling, the boy nodded.

  The woman reached into the bosom of her dress and pulled out a string of large wooden beads. Segregating the beads were a variety of tiny charms shaped like stars, plus a single three-inch crucifix that dangled like a Christmas tree ornament.

  The woman handed it to the boy.

  "What is it?" he asked, voice a pained whisper.

  She tucked it into the boy's hand and bunched his fist up over it, holding his hand as she spoke. "It is perhaps what the ancients have been seeking for thousands of years. The Holy Grail, the one true name of God. Many men have sacrificed their lives for this. This is the creation of all life. It is now up to you to see it back to its rightful place."

  The boy shook his head vehemently, panic twisting his dirty face. "I…I…can't." He looked at his mother's hand and saw a ruby ring of scars on her finger, swollen and bleeding, glowing beneath the golden candlelight.

  "You must!" she insisted. Eyeing him tearfully, she released his hand and touched the glistening ring of scars on her finger. "You see this, don't you?"

  He nodded.

  "You are His son. You are the sinless one."

  He knew—the previously unseen ring on her finger exposed her marriage to Christ.

  He looked at the crude rosary in his hand. Beneath the beads, in the center of his palms, ruby bruises emerged.

  Soon they would start bleeding.

  She stood. "You have seen what evil does to men. You must use the goodness in your hands to restrain evil and place it back to where it belongs."

  He gazed up at her, disbelieving. I am the sinless one…I am the son of Christ. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "Had I known it would come to this—"

  The door to the room burst open, and one of the church builders appeared.

  Evil had him.

  He stood bare-chested in the threshold, streaks of blood defiling his body and face. His scalp was in tatters, hunks of skin hanging away to reveal white bone underneath. His eyes were rolled up into his head, revealing harsh, gleaming whites.

  In his hand was a Civil-War era sword, its blade dripping with blood.

  He stepped into the room.

  The woman stood in front of her son, protecting him from the possessed man.

  The man raised the sword, and lunged forward.

  "Run! Now!" the woman shouted, shoving her son away with an arm behind her back. The boy screamed. He thrust the rosary into his pocket and stumbled around the table, past the builder. He tried not to look at his mother…but was unable to tear his eyes away from the blade of the sword as it sliced into her shoulder. Blood jetted out, dousing the builder's hands.

  The builder yanked the sword out. The boy's mother collapsed to the floor in a convulsing heap. Blood spouted from her wound. The builder raised the sword again…

  The boy fled the room. Behind, he could hear the heavy grunts of the builder; the sound of the sword cutting into flesh and bone; his mother's agonizing screams of death.

  Crying, he charged through the dark hallways. He passed into the church, nearly completed but utterly empty—a sight he never imagined possible. Five years of work, and no one here to embrace its otherworldly pleasures. He crossed the altar and exited into the rectory hallway.

  He paced the dark passage, slowly, quietly. At the entrance to the rectory, he paused, listening intently. Through the sound of his heaving breaths, his ears picked up echoes of torture coming from the meeting room—the moans and screams of evil's victims, the guttural laughs of those caught in its grasp.

  He clutched the rosary in his hand. It was warm, and moved slightly, like a snake in grass. He looked down at it and could see blood in his hands now, two jagged lesions centering his palms.

  Stigmata…

  He shuddered and moved into the rectory, knowing for certain now that he was the only one capable of salvaging the lives of those still alive.

  I am the sinless one.

  He walked down the hallway toward the meeting room, listening to the screams coming from inside.

  In his mind, his mother's voice came: The rosary will protect you. Heed its word and do your part to bring down the evil that promises man the end of days…

  At once he recalled the moment the crate broke at the bottom of the pit. A sound like wind gusting from out of some violent storm had emerged, and then from within the crate a black chalice floated up into the air, to a spot four feet above the edge of the pit.

  Everyone present had dropped to their knees, praying to the miracle before them.

  But his mother…she had seen something else fallen from the crate, and while everyone else's eyes were fixed upon the floating chalice, she climbed down into the pit and took what appeared to be a set of rosary beads. She'd gripped the beads in her hand, seeing now for the first time what she'd come to expect all her life: the ring of ruby scars around her finger. She shuddered uncontrollably, knowing she couldn't disclose this incredible discovery with anyone except her son, for he was the only one—the sinless one—meant to use it for its true intent.

  The boy entered the room.

  And saw the chalice.

  It was floating over the center of the pit just as he'd first seen it, black and glossy, covered with blood and fire. Below it was a scene born straight out of hell: the church builders, standing at the edge of the pit, covered in the blood of those they'd just sacrificed—their wives, sons, and daughters.

  In their hands were the tools they'd used to build the church—the weapons they used to slaughter their innocent families.

  Piece by piece, limb by severed limb, the builders fed their victims into the pit. From an unseen point below, thin streams of blood arced up and splashed into the chalice. From within the chalice itself, fires and wind raged, torturing the boy's ears.

  The builders turned and looked at him. Their eyes were u
pturned, their faces bloody masks.

  The boy held the rosary out before him.

  The men cowered and screamed like burning witches…and then from within the bowels of the pit a wretched beast rose up, composed of blood and mud and the severed body parts of those slaughtered. Its head, formed of the heads of those recently decapitated, rolled back on a twisted bundle of spinal cords with a horrible cracking noise. The mouths of the human heads screamed in unison, expressing the beast's distress.

  The boy stepped to the edge of the hole. The workers fled to the corners of the room, moving in odd jerking motions. Those still not sacrificed or possessed by the beast screamed hysterically and scampered away through puddles of blood and gristle.

  The beast roared—with failure, with expectation, with disorientation.

  The boy stepped to the edge of the pit, just feet from the beast.

  Still holding the rosary out, he reached for the chalice…

  Gather yourselves together, that I may tell you that which shall befall you in the end of days.

  Genesis 49:1

  Stigmata is a phenomenon observed in a number of Christian saints and mystics for which no satisfactory natural explanation has been offered yet. It consists of the appearance, on the body of a living person, of wounds or scars corresponding to those of the crucified Christ.

  Encyclopedia Britannica

  Chapter 1

  In his dreams, he witnessed the past, hundreds of faithful worshippers—men, women and children—flocking to share their beliefs within the walls of the church he now slept in. They'd built the church by hand, working endless hours until they lay fatigued and bleeding and perhaps near death. Ultimately, some men did indeed perish beneath the watchful perfection they aimed to create, their bodies laid to rest in the cement foundation poured beneath the wooden floors.