Patrick Midnight looked down below and saw an unending blue sky. A sea of fluffy white clouds crawled by, as the British-owned dirigible continued its methodical journey across the Atlantic. The special agent for the Society of Gentlemen Geographers was once again bound for foreign climes, but this time he was headed somewhere new. Rather than the foggy, rainswept streets of London or the dense tropical jungles of Latin America, Midnight was on a course for Africa, specifically the Gambia Colony and Protectorate. A small band of Society-funded archaeologists had gone missing in the French Soudan, and the New York office believed that the men were bound for the still-existent slave markets controlled by Tuareg nomads and bandits who lived on the coast. Stanley Hopkins had overloaded Midnight’s luggage with two things: firearms and money. The guns were for Tuareg bandits and Muslim pirates, and the cash was for bribing the pilot and crew of the Elephant. Midnight’s tense negotiations with the stiff and formal flight officers, including one gimlet-eyed fellow with a Ypres disposition, made him yearn for the sub-Saharan sun and the chance to fight with fists rather than words. Even when it was all over, and the special agent was granted permission to secure two suitcases full of .303 and .455 ammunition, Midnight still felt unconquerable shakes in his hands.
Midnight wanted off the zeppelin. The special agent was no stranger to airborne transportation, but familiarity did not breed contempt, but rather an ever-deepening sense of fear. Midnight hated to fly, and every bump of turbulence sent the usually hardboiled New Englander into spasms. He thanked small mercies for the laws of the Empire, specifically the crown’s firm stance against Prohibition, as he guzzled one glass of whisky after another. Even still, the haze of intoxication could not fully eliminate his nerves.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself, lad.” Reverend Blackstone’s dark eyes bore down on Midnight with a mixture of anger and contempt. The old Puritan did not hate drink outright, but he abhorred drunkenness.
“I shall not allow you another glass,” he said.
Midnight briefly whipped the drool forming at the corners of his mouth. He then turned to the semi-visible ancestral shade and made his case. Blackstone shot him down with scripture. He told his young charge that his dislike of flying was rooted in his fear of death, and that his fear of death stemmed from his godlessness.
“If ye lived by the Good Book, then ye would never fear the valley’s long shadow.”
Blackstone’s words inflamed Midnight, so he inched up higher in his chair. Blood rushed to his face, and he whispered through his clenched teeth: “Are you calling me a coward? You, who has left me to fend for myself in German castles and Mexican islands, are now implying that I am afraid of death?”
“Well, what is it then, lad? What be the reason for these shakes of yours?”
Midnight fought the urge to spit, claw, and scratch the impetuous Puritan. Instead, he let the anger wash over him until it left him exhausted. In defeat, he slunk back down in the seat and mumbled.
“What? Speak up, lad,” Blackstone said.
“Tell me a story,” Midnight slurred.
“Are ye wanting me to tell you a bedtime tale? Should I treat ye like a child from now on?”
“Tell me something from your life.” Midnight finished the last of his whisky. Rather than raise his hand for another, he turned the glass upside down. “Tell me about a time when you felt fear. Genuine fear.”
The request took Blackstone by surprise. The specter took his eyes off his charge for a moment and studied his seat. Blackstone searched his memory for something foul, and when he found it, it took him some time to utter the necessary words.
“I have not thought of this tale in ages, lad.” Blackstone’s calm, almost timid voice unnerved Midnight. And yet, the special agent stopped shaking, sat up, and stared at the semi-corporeal shape.
“Have you ever told it before?”
“No, lad. I have not uttered a breath of it since it happened. ‘Twas afraid that none of the godly elect would believe me. Yet, it ‘twas they who ordered me to do it in the first place.”
“Do what?” Midnight asked. Reverend Blackstone slowly closed his eyes and cracked his lips. The story came out slow and low, forcing Midnight to lean in his seat.
“He was a renegade that needed to be eliminated.”
***
After the bloodletting and terror of King Philip’s War, Blackstone wanted nothing more than to retire to his farm and study his Bible. But this was not to be. The awful, satanic world proved that it was not yet done with him. A sharp knock on his door after the sun’s fall began it all. Blackstone answered and was greeted by several stern-faced men, including two dressed partially in armor. Blackstone did not recognize them individually, but he knew by their dress that they were militiamen accompanying a magistrate.
“Reverend Increase Blackstone?” the magistrate bellowed with a commanding voice.
“Aye. That is my Christian name.”
“Bid us enter, please.” Blackstone did as commanded. The magistrate took a seat in the modest room. Despite the heat of the July night, a strong fire roared in the hearth.
“Word has it that you distinguished yourself in the recent conflagration. Is this true?”
“Aye. If the elect claim it is so, then it is so.”
The magistrate then asked Blackstone if he still had his arms. Blackstone pointed to a semi-dark corner where his fowling piece, flintlock, and rapier rested against the wood.
“Good. I assume they are well-maintained.”
“Aye,” Blackstone said with a curious eye. “Have the chieftains started acting up again?”
“No. You are to combat another threat.”
Blackstone took his own seat. He lifted the flagon from the table and poured the magistrate a cup of wine. The man took the cup with many thanks. The two militiamen stared at the liquid with great lust but kept quiet and still at attention.
“I have lived long enough in this plantation to know my betters,” Blackstone said. “You are a stranger here.”
“Aye,” the magistrate said. “My name is Weatherby. I am a magistrate of the town of Brookhaven.”
“Brookhaven? ‘Tis it a new town? I have heard of no new settlements in Plymouth or Providence.”
“That is because Brookhaven is not in New England but rather belongs to the County of Suffolk in the Province of New York.”
“Ye not look nor speak like a Dutchman.”
“I am not a Dutchman, but rather a man from Devonshire. The former Dutch holdings have been acquired by the Duke of York; thus, we are chartered by the Crown and are King’s men.”
“Congratulations,” Blackstone said while raising a glass of wine. He took a hearty pull and managed to flash a rare smile. “But I take it that all is not well in the new colony.”
“Indeed, it is not,” Weatherby said. “Our county is currently in flames. A deluge of rape, arson, and murder hath afflicted my countrymen, and we are at a loss to stop it. Since the beginning of summer, we have lost entire families to the devil that roams our island.”
“And ye want me, a lone individual, to stop it?”
“No, not alone. We have hired another man from England. He commanded a Parliamentary force during the war, and since being granted clemency by His Majesty, he has successfully commanded legions in a conflict of a different kind. We believe that his experience, along with your knowledge of arms, will be enough to end the scourge.”
Blackstone’s expression was a tableau of confusion. “Earlier, you spoke as if these crimes were being committed by one man. Is that true, Mr. Weatherby?”
“Aye, we believe it is so. For, at every outrage, whether in the woods or at the ashes of a former homestead, we have found such trinkets.” Weatherby snapped his fingers and one of the militiamen reached underneath his breastplate. An object was handed to the magistrate, who then delicately placed the item on the table.
Blackstone felt an instant sense of disgust. The object was small—no taller than a man’s palm. It was carved from some kind of obsidian stone not native to New England. Blackstone had never laid eyes before on something so hideous. His thumb felt the statuette’s contours. He recognized the rudimentary outlines as pagan, for the unnamable shape seated on the pedestal bespoke of something worshipped.
“Blasphemous idol,” Blackstone muttered.
“Indeed. And a complete mystery. We have captured Shinnecock, Lenape, Montauk, and Pequot. None have confessed to knowing such an entity. We therefore believe that it the creature and its adherent are not native to these shores.”
“A renegade!” Blackstone spit the word out with pure, visceral hatred. To him and other New Englanders, a renegade was the lowest, most despicable specimen. Renegades were Englishmen who had forsaken their God and countrymen to live like beasts in the wilderness. Blackstone grew angry remembering the horrid tales of renegade raids on villages, or the manifold times when renegades joined forces with the Wampanoag to slaughter women and children up and down the coast.”
“Aye. We believe the murderer came here either from England or from somewhere else. Our hired man should provide more answers when you show him this object. He studied for a time in Genoa and Florence and thus knows something of the black arts.” With that, Weatherby stood up and verbally instructed Blackstone on his next moves. The former militia captain was to travel to Manhattan, with his horse scheduled to leave the next morning. From there, he and the man from England would journey to Suffolk to begin their investigation. Weatherby spoke like a man unused to being contradicted, so Blackstone kept his mouth closed and merely nodded his ascent when Weatherby asked for confirmation. Once done, the three men walked back out into the nighttime and left as quickly as they had arrived.
Several days of hard riding and even harder hunger lead Blackstone to the port of Manhattan. The city, with its teeming tongues speaking in Dutch, English, Spanish, and the languages of darkest Africa, disgusted him. Blackstone considered the Crown mad for buying such a hateful settlement. He made his way to the docklands with a pinched nose and upturned collar.
“Increase Blackstone,” rumbled a baritone voice. Blackstone looked around and failed to find the speaker. All he saw were large ships, stevedores, and the foul-smelling Hudson. The voice spoke again: “Increase Blackstone, late of Plymouth Plantation.”
“Aye. That be my name.” A cold hand with long, slender fingers came to a rest on Blackstone’s shoulder. The New England Puritan turned and saw a tall, gaunt man dressed in dark colors. He sported a cap tilted at a rakish angle, and his burgundy cape was draped over wide shoulders. The man was a giant. Blackstone felt a tremble of fear as he spoke to the dark figure.
“I am Blackstone. Are you the man from England?”
“Aye.”
“And what be your name?”
The man scowled. “My name is…not of great importance. Know only that I am late of the New Model Army and have for some time done battle with the evils of this world.”
Although news came late to the colonies, Blackstone began to regard his ally as a so-called “witchfinder”—a man given authority by Parliament or the individual shires to find, arrest, and ultimately execute practitioners of the black arts. He reached into his cloak and produced the obscene idol. He held it aloft just long enough for the tall man to snatch it from his fingertips.
“This be the idol at the center of these crimes?”
“Aye. Goodman Weatherby says that versions of it have been found at every outrage. What is it? Heathenish to mine eyes.”
“Worse than that, Mr. Blackstone. This sorcery. Devotions far worse than alchemy or Agrippa. Even the damned Faust would never befoul his soul with such an object.”
“But what is it?”
The tall man ignored Reverend Blackstone’s question, and with a swift foot, mounted his mare and silently told Blackstone to follow him. The pair, both dressed in mournful colors, seemed to cast a long shadow over the bustling island of Manhattan. Bystanders refused to look at them. Downcast eyes followed the pair as they left the city and made for the wilds of Long Island. Here, in both villages and scattered farmlands, Blackstone and his companion found a howling emptiness.
“A cursed land,” Blackstone muttered as the pair left Huntington West Neck South—a hamlet that filled Blackstone with an unease that he could not name. His companion saw this and predicted that a future evil would befall the village.
“I grow afraid, though,” Blackstone said. “If we are to find the blackguard, we will need the assistance of the countrymen. So far, we have not found a soul.”
“I have not seen such wastelands since the war. Be of good cheer, though; we have not seen human carrion either.”
“Aye,” Blackstone said.
The pair rode in silence until a large funnel of smoke stopped them. The gray, miasmic fog smelled awful—a mixture of earth and human refuse. Blackstone rode furiously towards the emanation. The witchfinder maintained a slow and steady pace. Thus, by the time he arrived at the scene, Blackstone had already begun his interrogation of the bloodied survivor.
The smoke came from a burning farmhouse. Its brown boards were a crisp black, and everything but the basic foundation had already been eaten by the flames. Outside, on the small patch of grass between the house and the banks of the slow-rolling river, was a tableau of horror. A young woman, no older than thirteen, oozed blood from a large gash upon her forehead. A gentle nod from Blackstone’s boot proved that she was dead. Another corpse, this one male and much older, expired with both hands gripping its throat. Underneath the stiff fingers was a crimson red smile—a straight incision made with a sharp knife. At the farthest edge of the house, a frightened boy cradled his amputated hand. The dismembered appendage clung to his chest like a bloody babe. Blackstone placed a calm hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“What happened, my child?” He then told the boy that he was a minister and thus had God’s ear.
“Death…red…fire!” The traumatized urchin could only speak a word at a time. Hell. Delvilry. Fiend. Behind haunted eyes, the boy did his best to tell Blackstone what he had seen and heard.
“What did the monster look like, son?”
“Man,” the boy said. “A man. Dirty. Unwashed. Leather breeches. No blouse. A wild man. Creature of the cave…”
“Say that again!” The newly arrived witchfinder demanded a repetition. His booming voice—a hanging judge’s voice—made the already frightened boy cower.
“Pray, go easy on the lad,” Blackstone begged.
“Say it again! What cave?”
“The cave,” and here the boy pointed to an indeterminate area towards the northeast. “That is where they say he lives. A hermit. A monster of the caves.”
Blackstone leaned slightly closer towards the lad and did his best to speak in a slow and calm manner. “Did the evil man leave anything behind?”
The boy slowly relaxed the grip on his mutilated arm. There, nestled against his bloody chest, Blackstone saw the detached hand. In its claret grip was an obscene figurine. He did not have to study it in detail to know that it was similar to the one in the witchfinder’s custody.
“It ‘tis he, the devil.”
“Aye. How far be the cave, boy?” The witchfinder’s mare stamped impatiently. The boy mumbled a measurement. Blackstone gathered that the cave was less than a day’s ride from the scene.
“Come, then,” the witchfinder said. “We cannot afford to waste another moment.”
“But, the boy,” Blackstone pleaded. “We must render him aid.”
The witchfinder’s face was a void. It contained neither care nor malice. To him, the boy was immaterial. This inhumanity infuriated Blackstone, who gently picked up the wounded boy and reentered his saddle with the lad close to his chest. The trio began the journey towards the cave just as the darkest part of the night began to fall around them. Only a half-moon illuminated the rough road. Somehow, despite the speed of the horses and the chill of the nighttime air, Blackstone felt the lad fall asleep.
“The boy is in slumber,” he said.
“Good. We do not want him to see what comes next.”
“Aye, and what comes next?”
“You know, captain. You’ve known all your life. Although your recent bout of womanish sentimentality annoys me, I still know what you are.”
“And what’s that?”
“A killer. A killer for God.”
“Aye,” Blackstone remarked, for he liked the sound of that.
Sometime in the foul hours of the early morning, the two men and their unexpected charge discovered the cave. Its obsidian black maw welcomed them from the side of a small cliff. The cave was located in a deep woods—a part of the forest far enough away from water that waves could not be heard. The witchfinder dismounted his stead and produced a flint from his tunic. He struck the object on a nearby stone. A small, sulfurous flame would be their light.
“Leave the child here,” the witchfinder commanded. Blackstone left the boy to rest in the saddle, and he whispered instructions in the horse’s ear. “Do not be afraid, but be gentle in thy rocking,” he said. The horse nodded once as if he understood the King’s English.
Blackstone gripped his flintlock in one hand and held aloft his rapier in another. The witchfinder’s sole arm was a crooked dagger of foreign design. On the top of its hilt was a strange, two-faced idol. One face being male, the other female. Blackstone opened his lips to inquire about the totem, but he instead remained silent. Such inquiries could wait, he thought.
The bouncing flame from the flint showed bare walls covered in a kind of slime that came from the mixture of water and moss. Blackstone felt great unease as he and the witchfinder crept deeper into the cave. The utter silence of the natural edifice felt noxious. Unbeknownst to the former militia captain, the witchfinder also felt unwell. Blackstone stopped when he noticed that the witchfinder was fumbling with a trouser pocket. From this pocket the man produced pieces of meat. These items were then placed in the flame, where, by their odor, Blackstone recognized fish. The smell of fish organs, specifically liver and heart, filled the cave.
“Blessed are you, O God of our ancestors,” the witchfinder bellowed. “Blessed be your name forever and ever! Let the heavens and all your creation bless you fore…”
The prayer, which Blackstone recognized from the popish Book of Tobit, was snuffed out before completion. A figure from the darkness pounced upon the witchfinder, and with ravenous teeth, attempted to devour the surprised man’s throat.
“Back, foul demon. Revenant of the pit,” Blackstone screamed as he squeezed the trigger on his flintlock. The shot missed, and the entity ceased its attack on the witchfinder in order to scratch at Blackstone’s flesh. Three red lines appeared on his face. The blood seeped from his cheek into his mouth. The taste enraged Blackstone, who began jabbing fiercely with his rapier. One blow entered the creature’s sides, and Blackstone viciously turned the blade back and forth in order to leave a jagged wound. The thing cried in agony, and despite everything, the entity moaned just like a man.
“Give another!” The witchfinder tried to raise himself from the cold stone but failed. His shouts grew increasingly weak, but Blackstone recognized the determination in his voice. He thrust his rapier in and out, producing fresh buckets of blood each time. However, even wounded, the entity fought with an unholy fury. Fresh scratches and cuts decorated Blackstone’s face and hands, and when the fight ended, both figures were reduced to bloody ribbons. The only difference was that Blackstone lived.
“Drag the fiend into the air,” the witchfinder said. “We shall wait for sunlight.” Blackstone picked the enemy up by his naked feet and began the laborious process of bringing him outside. Once the work was done, sat down on the earth, and closed his eyes. Sleep overtook him in seconds. He did not rise again until the warmth of the sun touched his neck. Blackstone looked up and saw the yellow sun bearing down on the scene. He turned and looked over his left shoulder. What he saw made him want to return to the safety and security of slumber.
In the center of the inchoate circle, the prone murderer bubbled and burned. The sun—the blessed creation of God’s universe—cooked the creature’s skin to the point of fire. Small burns that looked like sores erupted on the man’s skin. His pale flesh, long beholden to the night and his cave, was slowly roasted by the day. Blackstone observed and shuddered, for no man born of woman cooked like that.
Off in another corner, the witchfinder had his back to a rock outcropping. One wounded hand gripped his neck, which no longer bled. However, the wound incurred by the fiend looked fatal. Blackstone saw the witchfinder’s chest rise and fall, but the breathing was labored. The former militia captain rose to his feet and reached for his horse. Rather than the reins, his hand groped a leg. A small, delicate, and obscenely cold leg. Blackstone looked up and dropped to his knees in despair.
***
“Exsanguination,” Blackstone said to Midnight. Their zeppelin had just crossed the Atlantic. Underneath their feet was the Dark Continent.
“The poor kid never had a chance,” Midnight affirmed.
“More could have been done,” Blackstone said, but rather than assurance, he spoke the notes of defeat.
“Did the witchfinder live?”
“Aye. He did in fact. The man even seemed to regenerate. He sat proud and tall in his saddle when he reached Manhattan.”
“How was that possible?”
“A single word—sorcery,” Blackstone intoned. “I was never able to prove it, but the witchfinder dabbled in diabolism as much as the murderer we killed on that evil night. Only an alchemist of incredible power could revive themselves after an assault like that.”
“And what about the murderer? Did you ever find out about him?”
“Only vague whispers. I learned later of an escaped slave—a servant to a Dutch master that came from somewhere in the German country. A man gone to madness thanks to a god of his own creation.”
A puzzled Midnight asked for clarification. Blackstone produced one of the foul figurines and gave it to his charge for study. Midnight thumbed the devilish object with horror and fascination.
“No religion speaks of such a god,” Blackstone said. “Either it is a demonic prince of some as-yet-unknown cult, or it was created by the murderer himself. Wickedness either way.”
“Yeah, for sure. And you have kept it this entire time?”
“Aye, lad. We began this story talking about fear, and I have kept the idol all this time to remind me of fear.”
“You still fear this object?”
“Nay, lad. The object no longer fills me with fear. Only memories do. And the one memory I am afraid of the most is the one where I failed. I was given a command by Our Lord to protect the innocent, and in the end I failed.” Blackstone took the object back. He then retreated back inside of Midnight, for the zeppelin was making its descent. The pair would soon be in Africa, but Blackstone’s mind was back in New York and looking into the eyes of an innocent child.
-- Arbogast is a neo-pulp writer and the owner of 1325 Publishing. He is a co-editor at the Bizarchives, and his work has appeared in the Bizarchives, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, Futurist Letters, and many more publications. He is the author of seven books, with his latest being THE RETURN OF PATRICK MIDNIGHT.