Fearmaster

[NicTei]

Fearmaster
Keeping the ghoulies out

When things get creepy, they call him in to take a look.  They call him the Fearmaster, for his knowledge of things supernatural, unbelievable, or just plain wrong.

So, when things get unnatural, who you gonna call?  The Ghostbusters?  No, the things the Fearmaster deals with would send those nerds running for the cover of their mother's house.  You call in the Fearmaster.  What have you got to lose?  Oh yeah.

Your life.

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I started this one because I didn't want to let everyone else have all of the fun with the interactive stories, and because the Macabre Mansion was really low on participants.  I just hope it doesn't scare anyone away...

Read on!

Contents:
Chapter 1:  Another Day, Another Case
Chapter 2:  Um...Anyone There?
Chapter 3:  Flashback
Chapter 4:  A Request
Chapter 5:  The Angel
Chapter 6:  Brat
Chapter 7:  Immortalists
Chapter 8:  Don't Ask Questions
Chapter 9:  The Grave
Chapter 10:  Run!!
Chapter 11:  Research

[NicTei]

I can't really write more of this one if the poll is a tie, can I?



EDIT:  Nevermind.  I'll just write up the chapter with the option where he goes to find the person that wrote the articles.

[NicTei]

Alright, you should see the next one of this up sometime later today.  I was working on it last night, but won't dare start it up now, with only 10-15 minutes before I'm out of here and the looming task of fixing a lunch (which I should be doing now).

Anyways, expect it up later today, with a more open-ended decision process than previous chapters.

[NicTei]

   His choice was made almost immediately.  He had to track down the authors of these articles to see if they had any more information.  Looking over both articles, he was astonished to see that they were both written by the same person:  Jane Fouster.

“Must be a veteran journalist,” Fearmaster muttered to himself as he picked up the phone book.

   To his dismay, she was unlisted in the phonebook.  Unwilling to give up, he ran to his room and pulled his laptop out from under his bed, booting the compact computer.  He carried it into his kitchen as he started up the browser, setting it on the counter and typing in the name of the journalist as he picked up the articles.

   Clicking on the first link he found, the World Wide Phonebook, he copied down the number and searched through his pocket for his cell phone.  Flipping it open, he punched the number in on the keypad as he tossed his coat on and grabbed his keys, laptop under his arm as he left his apartment.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end sounded rather young.

“I’m sorry; I’m looking for a ‘Jane Fouster.’  Is she there?” Fearmaster asked, hoping he had the right number.

“Sure!” the voice replied.

“Mom!  Phone for you!” he heard the younger woman say as she held the phone down.

“She’ll be with you in a moment,” the voice said, returning to the phone.

“Thank you.  You must be Mrs. Fouster’s daughter?” Fearmaster replied, making small talk.

“Yes.  I’m Dana Fouster,” the voice on the other line introduced.

“Most people call me…um…Fearmaster,” Fearmaster muttered.

“What a strange name,” Dana replied mechanically.

“Can I take the phone now, Dana?” a voice asked from somewhere on the other line.

“Of course, mom!” Dana answered, as if happy to get off the phone.

“Hello?”

The voice that took over the other line was aged and hoarse.  Fearmaster held the phone away while he cleared his throat, then started to speak.

“Hello, Mrs. Fouster.  I’m calling in regards to a set of articles that you wrote as a journalist,” he said, getting to the point right away.

“I wrote a great many articles, Mr…?” Jane replied, looking for a name.

“Fearmaster,” he answered.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line, sounding like static in Fearmaster’s ears.

“So I assume you’re calling about the article pertaining to your wife and child?” the aged journalist asked quietly.

“Partly.  I’m also looking for information on an article pertaining to the Ripper in the Warehouse, dated fifty years ago,” Fearmaster confirmed.

“I see…” Jane muttered.

“I’m afraid this isn’t something I can talk about over the phone; I’d like to meet in person,” Fearmaster said, getting into his car.

“I assume you’d need an address, then?” the journalist asked.

“No, I found it on the World Wide Phonebook webpage,” Fearmaster answered.

“The things you can do with technology these days…” Jane said, stunned.

“Yeah, it’s great.  I’ll be there in a half an hour, give or take a couple minutes,” Fearmaster said as he hung up the phone.

   Driving to the house of the retired journalist, Fearmaster was assailed with thoughts.  The past flashed before him as questions were raised.  These questions weren’t the type to be answered easily, so Fearmaster let them buzz in his head like a swarm of angry bees.

   Who had put the articles there?  How did they come to be in that format, with the older article beside the newer one with no signs of a copying machine?  And why was this person, or force, dragging his dead daughter into this?

   A memory of that dreaded day sprang to his mind, unbidden and unwelcome…

He was walking through an old, condemned school building, called by the contractor because of equipment malfunction and a series of unexplainable phenomenon, such as the lights staying on all night even though the wiring had been removed.  Something suddenly sprang towards him out of nowhere, knocking him over.
To his astonishment, his assailant was human, stabbing at him with a sharp knife.

   He kicked the man off, involuntarily kicking him through a first-floor window to where his wife and daughter were waiting for him to finish up.  They were waiting for him to come out so that they could go to a restaurant and celebrate his birthday.
Hearing a high-pitched scream, he launched himself out of the window, sprinting to the car that was already driving off.  To his horror, his daughter had been trying to escape the vehicle but got caught in the seatbelt, dragged along behind the moving vehicle.  Tears streaming down his face, he ran as fast as he could, but couldn’t catch up to the speeding car.

   Finally getting untangled from the seatbelt, his daughter rolled a ways on the street, stopping on her stomach.  He got to his feet and ran to her, though he was already winded.  He could tell that she was as good as dead just by looking at her back, which had been reduced to a bloody mess by the pavement.  Tragically, she was still alive, crying as he held her in his arms.  Ten minutes later, she was gone…

   Fearmaster snapped out of his thoughts as he suddenly realized that he was still driving.  Wiping his eyes, he coughed and shook his head, trying to get his head into the present.  The man that had stolen his car and caused his daughter’s death still hadn’t been caught, nor had his wife been found.  She was assumed dead.

   Pulling up at the address that he had scrawled down on the scrap of paper with Mrs. Fouster’s phone number, he stopped the car and got out.  His blood was boiling with the thought of his daughter’s murder, and he took deep breaths as he walked up the sidewalk, trying to calm down.  By the time he knocked on the door, he felt a little better.  Having seen what he thought was her apparition in the warehouse certainly didn’t help him forget.

“You must be Fearmaster!” a kindly voice said, snapping him out of his thoughts once more.

   The voice belonged to a woman that couldn’t have been much younger than he was.  She brushed a strand of thick brown hair out of her face, her brown eyes looking at him with interest.  He cleared his throat and extended his hand.

“And you must be Dana,” he said as she shook his hand.

“I’ll show you to my mother,” Dana said warmly as he stepped inside.

   Following her through a large, well-decorated home, he found himself in what appeared to be a small sitting room.  A fire was roaring in the fireplace, the smell of burning wood filling his nostrils.  And, sitting in a large red chair at the far end of the room, was Jane Fouster.

   She had aged well, looking to be near fifty though she was over seventy years old.  Intelligent hazel eyes searched his face from behind a set of thick bifocals, and a smile showed off a couple of gold-crowned teeth.  Curly red hair was cut short around her head, the color still quite clear despite the woman’s age.
“So, you must be Fearmaster?” she inquired.

“Yes ma’am, I’m Fearmaster,” he confirmed, giving a slight bow.

“Such a gentleman!  Hard to believe that you were the same man who rejected my request for an interview ten years ago!”

“Well, I was rather grieved, and young at that,” Fearmaster answered, sitting on the couch facing Jane.

“You must be in your late thirties by now, eh?” she asked as she took a cup of tea from her daughter.

“No, I’m twenty-eight,” Fearmaster replied as he took his own cup of tea.
Jane nearly choked on her drink.

“Twenty-eight?  It must’ve been a teenage pregnancy!” she exclaimed as she set down her tea and wiped off her mouth.

“Yes, we were young.  But we knew that it was meant to last,” Fearmaster said, staring off into space with a hint of sorrow in his voice.

Silence followed this statement, only broken by the sound of Jane sipping her tea.  Finally, Fearmaster snapped out of his little trance, remembering why he was there.  He set his tea down and looked Jane in the eyes.

“Do you have any more information on the Ripper in the Warehouse from fifty years ago?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I had Dana help me search through my old articles, and found the notes that I had taken when listening to the reports from that area,” the retired journalist replied, her smile returning as she nodded.

“Great!  May I see them, please?” Fearmaster inquired.

“Of course you may!  Dana, would you go fetch the articles for me?” the elderly woman asked her daughter.

   As Dana left the room, Fearmaster thought he sensed something.  He groaned inwardly; he didn’t want to have to cut this appointment short just to send a spirit to the light, or something.  Of course, that wouldn’t be as bad as having to cut his meeting with the Pope short when a Ghoul showed up in Naples, as he did a couple of years back, but it would still be better to stay here and get his information.
He was snapped out of his thoughts by an article thrust into his face.

“Thank you,” he said as he took the slip of paper.

   Scanning it, he didn’t find anything useful.  However, a name caught his eye.  He backed up, looking for it.  When he finally found it again, his heart was filled with dread and a familiar rage started to boil inside him.

“Briggs?  Henry Briggs?” he muttered, glaring at the slip of paper.

“Is there something wrong, young man?” Jane asked.

“The man suspected of killing my child and kidnapping my wife was named ‘Henry Briggs,’” he explained quietly.

“But it couldn’t be the same man!  He was already forty years old when he committed the murders at the warehouse!  Why, he’d be ninety years old now!  That’s hardly strong enough to tackle you and…and…” Jane replied, trailing off as she got dangerously close to sensitive territory.

“There are many ways that it is possible,” Fearmaster answered absentmindedly.
He sighed and stood up; this would take a lot of thinking to figure out.

“Well, thank you very much for the articles, Mrs. Fouster.  It was a pleasure meeting you and your daughter,” he said as he headed towards the door.

“Would you hold on a minute, young man?  I have a request for you!” Jane said, pulling Fearmaster back into the room.

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A request?  Interesting.  What do you think it is?
Get your suggestions in; this one should be more open-ended than the others.
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[NicTei]

Is no one going to suggest anything for this?  Anyone?  Come on, you know you want to!

[Chinaren]

Nicely written NiceTea.

I'd say her request is to come with him!  For a scoop!

[NicTei]

You do remember that Jane is around 70+ years old, right?  Just because she aged well doesn't mean she didn't age.

[NicTei]

Since there are no more suggestions, I'll go with Cren's idea.  Expect the next chapter up pretty soon.

I'm thinking of limiting how long I wait for suggestions.  Perhaps I should just update all of my Interactive stories on Sundays?  Or just Fearmaster on Sunday and the others on days when I'm not working on my other stories?  I think the schedule would look something like this:

Monday - One Long Nightmare
Tuesday - (insert story here)
Wednesday - Twilight Rain (hehehe...)
Thursday - (insert story here)
Friday - Masquerade 1:  The Opening (Ooh...)
Saturday - (insert story here)
Sunday - (insert story here)

Right now, all I've got for Interactive stories are Fearmaster and HeartEater.  That still leaves me with two open days.  Perhaps I should do a newspaper-esque deal and stick up a One-Shot comic strip every Sunday?

Bah, whatever.  I'll just work on the chapter and get this figured out later.

[Chinaren]

You do remember that Jane is around 70+ years old, right?  Just because she aged well doesn't mean she didn't age.

Maybe he can take a wheelchair.   

[NicTei]

“A request?  I’m listening,” Fearmaster answered, halting any forward motion.

   He was getting nervous; he had never had much luck with ‘requests.’  He recalled one particular case where he had been hunting a monster for the people of a remote tribe.  In return for information, he had been expected to father the next generation of the entire tribe.  It had taken him quite a bit of running and quick swim in a piranha-infested river to get out of that deal.

“Well, as you know, I used to be a journalist.  Old ways die hard, as you could probably guess, and I was wondering…” Jane started.

“If you could come along on a case?” Fearmaster finished for her.  “I’m afraid not.  I acknowledge that you have the spirit, but I think that the overall strain of what I do would be too much for you.  I’m sorry, but I cannot take you along.”

Jane smiled wryly.  “I understand.  But I wasn’t thinking of going along at all.  I was going to send my daughter with you!” she answered.

“What?” Fearmaster asked.

“Dana is an up-and-coming journalist.  It would do her good to get out of the house for a while to get a story, and what better way to get a certain success than by going with a paranormal investigator?” Jane explained with a gleam in her old eyes.

“But doesn’t she need to help you out around the house?” Fearmaster asked, hoping that he was asking a competent question.

“Bah!  She’s living with me because she’s got no one else!” Jane answered with a wave of her hand.

“Mother!” a voice cried indignantly from behind the old woman.

   Fearmaster looked over the old woman’s shoulder to see a rather angry Dana glaring at her mother.  Fearmaster coughed and excused himself, leaving the house and standing on the front step, taking in the cool night air.  Through the door, he could hear Dana yelling and Jane defending herself.  Finally, there was silence, and Dana came out of the house, pulling out a cigarette before Fearmaster stopped her.

“It’s best not to smoke,” Fearmaster said when she glared at him.  “Shall I show you some pictures?”

“Whatever.  Let’s just go on this little trip my mom wanted us to,” Dana muttered.

“Wait, you two just fought, and you still want to do what she says?” Fearmaster asked.

“It was my idea anyways,” Dana revealed, sighing.

“Okay then,” Fearmaster muttered, starting towards his car.

   Opening the passenger door for Dana, Fearmaster walked around to the driver’s door and got in, starting the sleek black vehicle with a press of a button.  Dana looked at the state-of-the-art dashboard, obviously astonished.  Pulling out a ‘Gospel and Soul’ CD, he popped it in to the disk tray.

As the first track started, Dana looked at him and laughed.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“Well, I find that it’s best to relax before you end up scared out of your pants,”
Fearmaster answered, “and it’s hard to relax listening to rock.”

“So you don’t have any rock CDs?” Dana asked dubiously.

Fearmaster smiled.  “You didn’t let me finish!” he said, pulling out a different CD.
“I was going to say ‘That being said, I have some rock music just in case.’  Doesn’t that clear things up?” he answered as he removed the Gospel and Soul CD and slid the Rock CD into the tray.

“Smooth,” Dana replied almost sarcastically.

“I thought so,” Fearmaster retorted, laughing.

   Just as the first power chords of the song began, Fearmaster’s phone rang.  However, it wasn’t a ringtone that he remembered downloading.  It was a heavy organ piece that sounded deep and ominous, but as it went on, there was a sound of hopefulness.  Eventually, though, it went back to the ominous sound.

“Are you going to answer that?” Dana asked.

“Is it my phone?” Fearmaster asked, hoping that it was her phone.

“That doesn’t sound like one of my ringtones,” Dana answered, looking into her purse.

   Sighing, Fearmaster turned down the radio and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.  Flipping it open, he put it up to his ear, but pulled it away right away, hoping to see a number.  The number there, however, was listed as 000-000-0000.  Gulping slightly, he put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he said, keeping an eye on the road as he talked.

“Good evening, Fearmaster,” the voice on the other end answered.

   The voice was young, but sounded very strange, though Fearmaster couldn’t put his finger on just what was off about it.  There was a strange, high-pitched squealing noise barely audible in the background.  It was very faint, but obviously there.

“Who may I ask is this?” Fearmaster asked as politely as possible.

“How quaint; manners in a time like this.  It seems that there is some hope for the world after all,” the voice replied.

“Are you calling simply to give your outlook on the world, or is there a purpose to this call?” Fearmaster asked, a little taken aback by the answer.

“And there go the manners.  To answer your question, there is a great purpose in this call,” the voice answered, a chilling laugh preceding the answer.

“Who is it?” Dana asked, looking at him.

“Business,” Fearmaster answered, though it was more of a hopeful guess.
 
“So what‘s this ‘great purpose’ that you’re talking about?” he asked the mysterious caller.

“All shall be revealed.  The knowing will come.  There are a great many ways to put the answer to that question, but the simplest is this:  You will find out soon.”

“And why all the secrecy?” Fearmaster inquired.

“Do me the simple favor of saving your questions.”

“And you criticize me for a lack of manners?” Fearmaster asked, amused.

There was a sudden pain in his chest; it felt like something was gripping his heart.

“What’s wrong?” Dana asked, getting worried.

“I will ask you to keep a civil tongue with me.  Is that understood?” the voice asked.
“Y-yes!” Fearmaster gasped.

“Good.”

The pain released, and Fearmaster was left breathing deeply.  Astonishingly, he had managed to keep driving through the episode.  Safe driving wasn’t his concern at the moment, though.

“Okay, no questions.  I assume you’ll give me a location to rendezvous?” Fearmaster said tersely.

“Of course.  I would like you to come to the old mansion that you investigated a mere four months ago.  There you will meet me, and there you shall learn your purpose,” the voice answered.

“I have a couple of questions,” Fearmaster ventured.

“Fine.  Ask.”  The reply was more of a command.

“Okay, the questions are pretty much synonymous:  Who are you, and what are you?” Fearmaster asked.

“You ask intelligent questions.  You certainly know how to deal with anonymous callers that can give you chest pains from a distance.  I shall only answer the first question,” the voice said after another chilling laugh.

“So?” Fearmaster prodded after a momentary silence.

“Abaddon,” the voice said.

Fearmaster made a sound akin to choking.  “Did you say Abaddon?” he asked.

“Apollyon,” the voice said as if in reply.

“Are you telling me-hello?  Hello!?”

   The voice on the other end had hung up, leaving Fearmaster hanging.  Finally, he snapped his phone shut and returned it to the front pocket of his trench coat.  It was then that he noticed Dana was staring at him.

“What?” he asked casually, keeping his eyes on the road.

“What was that all about?” Dana asked, curious.

“Pull out the Bible in the glove box and open it to Revelations 9:11,” Fearmaster instructed.

   Dana pulled out the Bible and flipped through it.  As she flew through the pages, Fearmaster kept his eyes on the road, amazed that he had kept the car straight even with his chest pains and the revelation of what he was talking to.  Suddenly, Dana tapped him on the should, showing him the verse as she read it out loud.

“They had as king over them the angel of the Abyss, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek, Apollyon,” she read out loud.

“Does that mean…?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Fearmaster replied.

“We’re dealing with an angel.”

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Zoinks!  What now?
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[Chinaren]

Nicely wrote NicelyT.  Them Angels, can't trust 'm.

Unfortunately I can' think of their next steop, 'cos I'm really drunk atm.  Its atkane me abot 5 minsutes to type this. Bah burble

[NicTei]

Any suggestions should be in by Sunday; that's when I type the next one.  I'll also have to get started on the next one of HeartEater.  I seem to recall a suggestion, but wanted to wait for more.  Not waiting any longer; gonna write it!

[Chinaren]

MAybe they could check out some bibles, or other reference sources?  Mmm, can't think of anything else.

[NicTei]

Bibles?  References?  Hm.  I was wondering what you guys would think A's meeting would be like (it sounded pretty urgent), but I guess they can take a little side trip.

I'll start writing this on Sunday (gone all day tomorrow), so suggestions will be taken then.

[NicTei]

   Instead of heading directly to the mansion, Fearmaster took a little drive, finally stopping outside a monstrous building.  He looked at Dana, wondering if she was going to come in, but decided that if she wanted to come, she’d follow him.  Parking the car in front of the building, Fearmaster started up the large set of stairs, hearing Dana get out of the car and follow him.

   He pushed through the revolving doors, ignoring the protests of a well-dressed clerk just inside the lobby of the building that was undoubtedly a library.  He showed the young man a card, and he shut up, quickly opening the doors he had just been locking.  Fearmaster stepped into the large chamber filled with bookshelves, looking around for a moment before taking off for a certain area, Dana at his heels.

   Stopping in front of a large bookshelf filled with ancient looking books, he started to run his fingers over the spines of the books, reading the titles quickly.  In truth, he was only looking at the first letter of each; the book he was looking for started with a certain letter that no book around it had in its title, which was a very odd coincidence.  With a small sound of triumph, he pulled down a large book that looked like it had been chewed on by multiple dogs, though the title was still very clear:  Codex Angelis.

“Thankfully, our little friend should be right in the very beginning of the book!”
Fearmaster said to no one in particular as he opened the very dusty volume.

He suddenly gasped.  “The page is gone!” he muttered, staring at the book.

   Where the page about Abaddon, or Apollyon, had been, there was an uneven tear at the binding of the book.  In fact, more than one page had been torn out; it seemed that there had been quite a bit on Abaddon in this old Tome.  Disappointed, curious, and slightly afraid, Fearmaster replaced the desecrated book on the shelf and left with Dana behind him, the latter not really comprehending what was going on that well.

“So let me get this straight,” she said as she got into the passenger seat of Fearmaster’s car, “there’s an angel that’s called you for some reason, and it tore a page out of a book?  That seems pretty random to me.”

“That book was a reference book.  It had information on all angels that appear in any kind of mythology, including ones that were likely made up on the spot as an excuse for something like a miraculous recovery due to witchcraft,” Fearmaster answered as he started the car.

“Witchcraft doesn’t work!” Dana exclaimed, looking at Fearmaster like he had grown another head.

Fearmaster simply laughed.  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he replied as he pulled out of the parking lot for the library.

There was silence for a moment.

“Where to next?” Dana asked, breaking the quiet.

“We’re headed to the mansion to meet this angel,” Fearmaster said with an air of finality.

   They pulled up to the mansion half an hour later.  It was nearing midnight, but Fearmaster wasn’t even beginning to feel tired.  He could remember quite vividly what had happened in this mansion; he was lucky to have escaped without some kind of lasting damage.  Poltergeists were always so violent.

“Looks kind of creepy,” Dana said, shivering as she looked up at the old empty windows.

“You should’ve seen it before I got here,” Fearmaster murmured, not intending for her to hear him.

“Does someone live here?” Dana asked, following him as he went up to the door.

“Yes, but I’m not sure if they’re home or not.  In fact, I’m not even sure if it matters where they are; there’s an angel in there!” he replied, lifting his hand to the knocker.

   The metal ring made a loud booming noise as it impacted the door, though Fearmaster had been quite gentle on it.  There was a delay for a moment, but the door soon opened.  By itself.

“I think I should wait in the car…” Dana said, but Fearmaster was already inside.

“Ms. Prior?” he called.  “Ms. Prior, are you home?”

“Hush, you don’t want to wake the lady of the house!” a voice echoed from all over.

   Fearmaster recognized it as the voice he had heard on the other end of the phone line earlier.  Instinctively placing himself in front of Dana, he was answered with a laugh.  A very cold laugh.

“A very bold gesture, but you know what I am,” the voice said.

“Show yourself, Abaddon,” Fearmaster demanded.

“Apollyon,” the voice corrected.

“Okay, show yourself, Apollyon!”

“Abaddon!” the voice corrected mockingly.

   Before Fearmaster could respond, his cell phone rang.  Thankfully, it was a ring tone that he recognized this time.  He opened it, already knowing who was calling.

“What is it, Ms. Cole?” he asked, keeping his eyes open for the angel.

“Where are you at!?” she answered.  She sounded angry.

“I’m at the Prior estate,” Fearmaster answered, jumping as a shadow shifted on one of the walls, a product of a car passing by outside.

“Why the heck are you all the way over there?” Cole inquired, this time sounding more weary than angry.

“It’s a long story.  I’ll call you when I’m done here?” Fearmaster answered as footsteps were heard on the balcony overlooking the entryway.

“I thought we were finished with the Prior estate?” Cole said, sounding confused.

“Um…something came up.  I’ve got to go,” Fearmaster said as a door began to creak open at the top of the balcony.

   Flipping the phone shut, he began to wish that he had brought some form of self-defense along.  Not that it would do much good against an angel, but what if it were merely a burglar?  What if the angel had sent him here to stop a potentially fatal robbery?  Or, more disturbingly, what if the angel were the robber?

“Um…is Abaddon a girl?” Dana asked suddenly.

“What?  No, why?” Fearmaster asked, looking up to the balcony; he had been so lost in his thoughts that his gaze had wandered out the window.

“Then who’s she?” Dana asked, pointing to the figure that had emerged out of the slowly opening door.

   She was slightly shorter than Fearmaster, but still taller than Dana was.  She appeared to be around the age of Fearmaster, with long blonde hair reaching down below her shoulders and stopping just above her waistline.  Her thin figure was covered in a black nightdress, and she held a candle in one hand, the light reflecting off of her deep blue eyes.

“Hello?” she asked, looking down at the visitors.

“Ms. Prior, I’m sorry to barge in,” Fearmaster said, bowing low, “but I received a call telling me to come here at once.  Do you happen to have an ange-I mean ‘visitor’ up there?”

“Oh, Fearmaster!  Still checking up on me, I see.  And please, call me Genna!  As a matter of fact, I do have a young man up here that collapsed on my doorstep a couple of nights ago.  He was rather malnourished, so I brought him inside and had the doctor look him over,” Ms. Prior replied in her elegant, singsong voice.

“I understand.  May I speak with him?” Fearmaster asked, calming down a little.

“Of course!  Come on up!” Genna Prior said with a smile as she disappeared back the door.

“That was Ms. Prior?  She looked more like she should be out partying on some college campus than sitting inside this large house all day!  And the way she talked?” Dana exclaimed as she followed Fearmaster up the stairs.

“Well, she comes from a very old family, and has been homeschooled most of her life.  Her father was a very brilliant professor, and I daresay her mother was even more intelligent,” Fearmaster replied.

   Both were quiet as they walked through the door, finding themselves in a hallway.  Ms. Prior was standing outside of a room, still holding the candle.  She saw them and smiled again, pointing towards the room.

“Are the lights not working?” Fearmaster asked as he neared her.

“Oddly enough, there was a storm the night before the boy got her, and it has knocked out all of my electricity.  The repairman’s coming tomorrow night,” Genna replied, ushering them through the door.

“Hello, Fearmaster,” a voice said from the far side of the room.

   Sitting on a chair with his legs crossed and sipping out of a small cup of tea was a young teenager, probably only around sixteen years old.  There was a strange gleam in his deep brown eyes, as if he were smiling at them from behind his glasses.  Or deciding which to eat first, Fearmaster thought with a nervous, inward laugh.

   Framing his face was a long mane of brown hair, barely reaching his shoulders as it curled upwards as if afraid to touch him.  Part of his bangs had fallen down over his left eye, and he brushed it back with his left hand, setting the tea down on the table by the comfortable chair he was sitting in.  His outfit was basic black, with jeans and a black sweater thrown on over a black shirt.  The sweater was a turtle-neck, but had a zipper starting at the front of the high neck and extending all the way down to the middle of the chest.

“I presume that you’re Abaddon?” Fearmaster managed to say.

“Of course not.  I’m Allen,” the boy said with a rather disturbing smile.  Indeed, his voice was the same as the one on the other end of the line.

“We know that you’re lying,” Fearmaster said confidently.

“No, I am Allen.  Apollyon is resting at the moment,” the boy answered, cracking his neck.

“That’s strange; I would’ve assumed that those who were possessed by angels would have no memory of the possession, much like with other spirits,” Fearmaster said as he moved closer to the boy.

Allen laughed.  “How quaint!  You think this is a mere possession!”

Fearmaster stopped.

“Is there a reason that’s funny?” he asked, ready to take a step back if things got weird.  Well, weirder.

“I’ll save the long explanation for some other time, but the basic idea is that Apollyon and I are bound together.  We have been for five hundred years,” Allen replied as he took another sip of the tea.

“That’s impossible!”

“Isn’t it also impossible that the man that killed your wife ten years ago is responsible for more than ten other deaths fifty years ago?” Allen countered.

“Are you saying that he’s an angel as well?” Fearmaster asked, taking a bold step forward.

“Oh, don’t jump to conclusions; the Lord has nothing against you, and the deaths of your wife and child, though tragic, weren’t some insidious plot by the Lord to ruin your life as the devil-worshippers would tell you,” Allen said, wiping his hand through the air as if to push the question away.

“Then what is he, if not an angel?” Fearmaster asked irritably, though in reality he felt more at peace.

“When I said that he’s not an angel, I meant that he’s not an angel anymore,” Allen answered, draining his teacup.

“So he’s…a demon?” Fearmaster asked in horror.

“Of course.  What else would do something as grisly as murdering a child?  And not just yours; fifty years ago, he was responsible for the deaths of exactly twenty young boys and girls, though he was never tried for it.  They never even knew.  The parents are still hopeful of finding their lost offspring,” Allen said, and Fearmaster thought he saw a flash of emotion in the cold eyes.  If it had been there, however, it was gone in seconds.

“So if the good Lord wanted you to find me, what am I supposed to do?  Go door-to-door selling Bibles?” Fearmaster asked, feeling a little more courageous despite the information he had just been given.

The boy’s gaze had been neutral until this point, but it now turned into a full glare, one that made Fearmaster start to tremble.

“This is not the time for jokes, Erik,” he said, using Fearmaster’s first name.

“Yes sir,” Fearmaster said, backing away again.

The glare left Allen’s face, but there was still a touch of annoyance in his tone.

“Now, about your mission…”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Oh dear; it looks like we’ve bitten off a bit more than we can chew!
What’s the mission?  I’m thinking of saving this demon for last, as a main antagonist, so put on your thinking caps!
…
…
Did I really just say that?
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[NicTei]

Sorry I was so late with this!  It's here now, anyways.

Suggestions, everyone! anyone?

[Chinaren]

Sorry NiceT, I meant to catch up on this before, but was distracted.

Anyway, I liked this chapter. 

I say his mission is to find another young boy who may be targetted by the demon (for reasons I don't know) and save him.  The only thing is, the boy's in juvey, and he's a real brat.

 

[NicTei]

Erm...I was supposed to do this yesterday.  Sorry!  I'm getting to it right now!

I'll be writing this chapter (hopefully in its completeness) tonight, and then posting it as soon as possible!  This is probably going to be a fun one, since I don't get to write bratty characters that often.  That being said, I don't think Apollyon will be accompanying them.

Time to begin Chapter 6:  Brat.

[NicTei]

“Yes, what is the mission?” Fearmaster asked.

   Allen had been silent for a little while.  He had even closed his eyes and, after a while, had started to mouth words.  Fearmaster, not being a lip-reader, had no idea what Allen was saying, mystified by this strange development.

   Suddenly, a deadly chill ran through the room, and Fearmaster felt himself being pulled toward Allen, though not strong enough to move him visibly.  When Allen raised his head, there was something different about him.  His eyes, which had been brown before, were now icy blue, with slit pupils glaring straight at Fearmaster.

“Apollyon?” Fearmaster ventured.

What was Allen until a moment ago, just kept staring at him.

“Your mission,” the cold voice said after a moment, “is to find this boy and bring him here.  I’ve made this place safe against many unholy creatures.”

   Apollyon, using Allen’s body, tossed a picture of a young teenager at Fearmaster.  The boy’s dark eyes were glaring dangerously at the camera from under black bangs shorter than Allen’s, and the background suggested either prison or a juvenile detention center.  Fearmaster looked at the picture in disbelief.

“So that’s my ‘divine mission’?  Become a babysitter?” Fearmaster asked, looking back at Apollyon.

   The angel boy, however, wasn’t where he had been before.  He was now at the door, an impossible feat; he would’ve had to walk right through Fearmaster to get there.  Fearmaster spun around, freezing as he met the angel’s glare.

“You will not make light of this!” Apollyon growled, walking menacingly towards Fearmaster.

“This boy is being targeted by the demon that killed your wife and child!  If he is allowed to die, sinner or not, this demon will simply become stronger, and it will require drastic measures!” the angel continued, effectively turning Allen’s already cold voice into something that made Fearmaster stumble backwards, tripping over a stool.

Apollyon clutched his temples.  “I will not be accompanying you on this particular mission.  This is a test; if you cannot succeed, then I shall be forced to repair my mistakes with my own hands,” he said, turning away.

“Wait,” Fearmaster said, getting to his feet.

“What now?” the angel asked.

“Abaddon is the name of a demon.  It said so in the Codex Angelis; I just remembered skimming it before and seeing that.  What do you have to say about this?” Fearmaster asked, a little bolder for some strange reason.
Apollyon laughed.

“You foolish humans assume that the fact that I take the souls of humans to the other side of the Jordan that I cannot possibly angelic in nature.  You find the curse of Death so horrifying that you cannot associate something so inherently ‘good’ as an angel with it, and therefore I was ‘made’ a demon to those that care to study your misinterpretations.  Furthermore, what use would I have watching over the Abyss that imprisons Luc – the devil, if I were one of his subordinates?” Apollyon said.

“But for the sake of keeping my name from that taint, refer to me as ‘Apollyon’,” he added after a moment.

   After saying this, he left the room completely, leaving Dana, Ms. Prior, and Fearmaster alone, two of the three wondering what in the world was going on.

“You’re seriously going to go through with this?” Cole asked Fearmaster.

   It had been mere hours since the meeting with Apollyon and Allen last night.  The sun was just beginning to rise, sending streaks of orange fire across the sky.  Both Fearmaster and Cole were sitting in the nondescript black car that Cole often drove, parked right in front of the juvenile detention facility where the boy, Dean Scully, was being detained.

“This isn’t just some wandering spirit. This is an angel.  From God,” Fearmaster replied, looking at the door.

“Then why are we just sitting here?” Cole asked.

   Fearmaster had no reply, instead stepping out of the car and making his way to the door.  There was a camera aimed at the door, but Fearmaster paid no attention to it; he came here for one reason only.  There was a beep from off to his side, and he saw that there was a small scanning device that had checked him over for any metal objects.  He had none on him, so he was allowed through.

“Yes, I’m looking for this boy,” he said, showing the young woman behind the desk the picture he had received from Apollyon.

“Are you a family member of Mr. Scully?” she asked, keeping a hold on the picture.

“Erm…no, I’m a…psychiatrist,” Fearmaster said, though it sounded more like a guess.

“Very well then,” the clerk said, sounding unconvinced.  “You’ll find him in the last room on your left.”

   Fearmaster started down the pristine white corridor, the smell of a sterile environment astonishing him.  He didn’t think that a mere juvenile detention facility would have to be as clean as a hospital, but then again, he’d never actually been inside one in his entire life.  He concluded that they kept it clean as some kind of metaphor for the condition of the kids kept here, like “We’ll make you better like a hospital would make you better if you were sick.”  It was a long shot, but he had no other guesses.

   Halfway down the corridor, he felt something.  It wasn’t something that he’d feel on his case, like the anger of a left-behind spirit, or the sorrow of a long-dead parent searching for a child.  No, this was sheer malice.  The feeling made him stop in his tracks, shivering.  Then, hand on the gun that Cole had given him just in case, Fearmaster continued forward.  As he came to the last door, the feeling only worsened, until it took everything in his power to not bolt down the corridor and back into the car where Cole was waiting.

   Hand shaking, he reached forward and touched the doorknob, which was surprisingly ice cold.  Taking a deep, shaky breath, he turned the knob silently and opened the door slowly.  The room beyond was dark, but he could still make out everything inside.  Gasping, he took a step back, hand firmly grasping the gun.

   A large, black cloud was hovering over the body of Dean Scully, a tendril of the smoke reaching towards him.  Fearmaster suddenly found his voice again and yelled “Cristo!”  The cloud shuddered violently before whirling around, revealing the face of Henry Briggs.  Rushing forward, Fearmaster pulled out a small crucifix that he always carried with him in his pocket, brandishing it at the demon.  Hissing, Briggs flew towards a small door, slamming it behind him.

“What’s going on in here?” a voice asked from behind him.

Fearmaster turned to see the clerk glaring at him.

“Sorry miss, but I’m afraid I cannot let this boy remain here a day longer,” Fearmaster said, pointing to the still sleeping Scully.

“Why not?  He’s here for rape, attempted rape, and possession!” the woman argued.

“Possession?” Fearmaster inquired.

“Yes, he had a bag of marijuana with him when they picked him up for the rape,” the woman replied.

   Fearmaster sighed with relief, his line of work having changed the meaning of ‘possession,’ at least in his mind.  He then remembered that Briggs, if that was his real name, was still hiding himself in whatever room was behind the door.  Motioning for the woman to be quiet, he stalked inside, still holding the crucifix out in front of him.  Grabbing onto the scalding hot doorknob, he yanked it open.  The smell of sulfur invaded his nose as the black smoke exited the closet and hovered over the boy, streaming into his nostrils in a last-ditch attempt to get what it came for.

   As the woman screamed, Fearmaster hurled the crucifix at it.  As the symbol of faith passed through it, it started to disappear, loud explosive sounds emanating from it as red light appeared inside it.  Finally, it dissipated completely, though a small wisp escaped the room without Fearmaster noticing.  Dean woke up, glaring at everyone in the room, though his eyes stopped dangerously on the woman for a moment.

“Dean, you’re being released into my custody,” Fearmaster said calmly.

“Why the fu-?”

“Watch your language around me!” Fearmaster interrupted.

“Okay, then why the bleep am I leaving?” Dean asked, emphasizing the ‘bleep’ sarcastically.

“Because you’re no longer safe here,” Fearmaster said, calmly looking into his eyes.

“What, is some big bad gang member going to come in here and shank me?  Pop a cap in my ass?” he asked haughtily, as if Fearmaster were scum.

“Again, watch your language,” Fearmaster said, moving in closer.

“I know that you can see them,” he whispered into Dean’s ear.

The boy became immobile immediately.

“You see them as clear as day; you have that same air about you as I do.  And you can also see what just tried to take you.  Your sense is so vivid at your age that you could probably see it without even opening your eyes,” Fearmaster continued.  “You can see everything, and it frightens you.”

With that the boy laughed.

“What?  Frightens me?  Ha!  I couldn’t care less about what I think I see!  All I care about is getting out of here so that I can get the rest of my stash and head out of the country!” he cackled.  Then, with an air of seriousness, he added, “I’ve decided on Canada.  There’s better beer there, and I’ll bet the girls up there look just as good as the ones down here.  Probably don’t fight as much, either!”

   There was silence for a while, and Fearmaster nearly hit the perverted youth.  However, the boy was about his size, and probably a lot stronger than he was, as well.  There was no doubt in his mind of what this boy was capable of, and the thought of having him filled up with any kind of alcohol or drug scared Fearmaster more than any supernatural force he had come into contact with so far.  Well, almost.  Demons still scared the living daylights out of him.

“But,” Dean said, breaking the silence, “If you say that I’m safer with you, I’ll leave!”

“Glad to hear it,” Fearmaster said half-heartedly.

   To tell the truth, he was wondering just what he had gotten himself into.  As soon as he heard ‘Apollyon’ on the other end of the phone, he should’ve refused, no matter what the angel may do to him.  He doubted that it would kill him; no doubt God wouldn’t allow it.  Still, he shuddered to think what could’ve happened to him had he refused.

   While Dean changed into the civilian clothes that he was given by the clerk, Fearmaster stood outside the door.  When the boy finally came out, he started walking towards the front desk.  Fearmaster caught up with him, keeping stride beside him.  They passed the desk, Fearmaster nearly having to pull Dean with him, as the boy slowed down, watching the clerk dangerously.

“Now, when we get into the car, no funny business with agent Cole, okay?” Fearmaster ordered.

“Fine.  If she’s with you, she’s probably an ‘ugo’ anyways,” Dean snorted.

   Fearmaster rolled his eyes and walked with Dean around the car, opening his door for him.  He then walked around the front and got into the passenger seat, making sure that Dean was in the seat behind him instead of the seat behind Cole.  The boy was already staring at Cole.

“Holy crap!  I underestimated you!  She’s a babe!” he practically yelled.
Cole turned red, and Fearmaster rolled his eyes again.

“Maybe you’d like to go to a party later on, Ms. Cole?  It is Ms. Cole, isn’t it?” Dean asked in as smooth a voice as he could manage.

“You did know that Cole is a federal agent, right?” Fearmaster asked Dean.

   After this, Dean shut up, though he kept staring at Cole.  Fearmaster kept his hand on his gun, watching Dean warily.  However, they got to the Prior estate without incident, and Fearmaster relaxed his hold on the firearm; it seemed that Dean wouldn’t be giving them any trouble.  Yet.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a party later on?  It’ll be fun!” Dean insisted as he got out of the car, not even looking at the house.

   Fearmaster tapped on his shoulder and pointed to the large mansion they were now standing in front of.  When he saw it, his eyes widened.  He stared a little too long, so Fearmaster followed his gaze.  Standing in the window was Genna Prior, waving down to them.  Grabbing onto Dean’s shoulders to stop him from busting into the house, Fearmaster guided him to the front door.

“Let’s have no funny business with Ms. Prior, either,” he said quietly to Dean.

“You have all of these hot single women, and yet you’re still single?  Dude, I think I should just be able to help myself if you’re not going to make a move!” Dean shot back as they went inside.

“I don’t think they’d go for a younger kid,” Fearmaster retorted.

“Well, that didn’t stop me with-oh, you’re here?”

   Dean’s sentence was stopped when he saw Allen standing at the balcony, glaring down at him.  His lips curled up in a sneer, and he whirled around, entering the corridor behind him and slamming the door loudly, the sound echoing around the large room.  Fearmaster looked down at Dean, who was smiling evilly.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“I’ll bet he’ll tell you later!” Dean answered, cracking his neck as Ms. Prior appeared.

“You must be Dean?” she asked, pointing to him and smiling.

“Yes ma’am!” Dean replied, bowing deeply.

“What a gentleman!  Your quarters are just next to mine!” she said, smiling even bigger.

   As she led him away to put his things in his room, he turned to Fearmaster and pumped his fist as if to say ‘Score!’  Fearmaster, mildly appalled, followed them after a while, though his destination wasn’t to either Genna’s or Dean’s room.  He knocked on the door to where he had met Apollyon and Allen, but no one answered.

“That’s not where I’m staying,” a voice said from behind Fearmaster.

He turned to see Allen standing against the wall behind him.

“So where are you sleeping?” Fearmaster asked.

“In Ms. Prior’s room.  I often nod off in the chair beside the fireplace in her bedroom,” Allen answered, closing his eyes.

“Do you want to explain how you know Dean?” Fearmaster asked.

Allen opened his eyes, glaring straight at Fearmaster.

“Dana stopped by a while ago, wanting to give you something, but I said you were away,” he answered, avoiding the subject.

“Come on, just tell me how you and Dean are connected!” Fearmaster persisted, ignoring Allen’s response.

“I would, but it seems we have a mission,” Allen answered coldly.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Hm…this could be interesting.  What do you think the mission is?

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[NicTei]

Well, I'm sorry that one was so late; I had the Friday XIII special to work on (which I'm still not done with...), and then I had a lack of inspiration.  Anywhoo, I powered through that, and here's your chapter.  I've already got ideas as to how Dean and Allen are connected, so no suggestions on that, please.

Anyways, leave your ideas, and next Sunday I should be doing a little better on the writing part.  Maybe if I started on Saturday so that I was finished for Sunday?  Hm...

But, I digress.  Suggest away, Tomeians!

[Chinaren]

that there was a small scanning device that had checked him over for any metal objects.

Gosh,none?  Not even keys or a belt buckle?  He must be good in airports.  Something always sets the damned metal detector off when I go through it. 

and...

Possession?

As for the DP, mm, my mind is blank, but it has to be something that contradicts what Feary has to do! 

[NicTei]

No suggestions?  Boy, I'm glad something came to me during Church today...

[spoiler=Next chapter's keyword is...]Immortalists[/spoiler]

[NicTei]

“Again?  But I just got that brat here!” Fearmaster complained.

   A glare from Allen silenced him, however.  The angel boy stepped forward, no longer leaning against the wall, and motioned for Fearmaster to follow him.  He started for the entrance hall to the Prior mansion, talking as he walked down the stairs.

“A couple of days ago, a corpse was found inscribed with all sorts of satanic symbols, and it was missing its head, hands, and feet.  Naturally, the police took it to the morgue, but it was found missing the next day, a trail of blood leading them to a small pond, where they found another body almost identical to the first one,” he explained, heading for the door.

“So we’re moving from demons to kids with issues to serial killers?” Fearmaster asked, wondering where it would end.

“Not exactly.  I did a little investigating, and it seems that the corpse is connected to a series of rituals performed by a very secretive cult.”

   Fearmaster’s stomach lurched; he always hated it when someone mentioned cults.  If they started to mess around with the affairs of a cult, then they could be sued for interfering with religious practices, no matter how insane those practices may be.  Even if they won the lawsuit, they’d have all sorts of crazy freaks coming after them, tossing burning heads into their windows and whatnot.

“The matters of God’s Law outweigh the matters of the man’s law,” Allen said, as if he had read Fearmaster’s thoughts.

“But why are we interfering with the rituals of this group?” Fearmaster asked.  “For all we know, this body could’ve been the body of a willing sacrifice!”

“I knew this man.  He was no Immortalist,” Allen answered coldly.
Fearmaster froze, unsure if he should believe what he had heard.

“The Immortalists?  We’re interfering with the Immortalists!?” Fearmaster yelled in shock.

“Keep it down; the walls have ears,” Allen said, glaring at Fearmaster.

“Yes, and I’m pretty sure those ears belong to the Immortalists!  They’re rumored to be the largest cult in the world!  We can’t just go and interfere with their rites and hope to escape alive!” Fearmaster argued, ignoring the fact that his voice was ringing throughout the entrance chamber.

“Stay your tongue!”

   The voice was undoubtedly Apollyon’s; it echoed around the entire house, shaking the windows and causing a flock of birds that had perched on the roof of the large house to fly away in fear.  Fearmaster was immediately quiet, trembling slightly.  The air was heavy with some sort of energy, and he realized that it must be the presence of the angel, though why he hadn’t felt it before was a wonder to him.

“These Immortalists are no longer human.  They have used Black Magic and satanic rituals to lengthen their lifespan far longer than any human can take, and on top of that, they have given themselves a wide range of abilities and protective wards that make them nigh impossible to kill and very dangerous in any kind of combat.  They are a disgrace to this world that the Father has built, and as they kill off those that believe wholeheartedly in Him, they must be eradicated,” Allen said, taking his body once more.

“So you’re asking me to kill other people!?” Fearmaster asked, horrified.

“You’re not listening.  These people sold their very souls just so that they could live long enough to persecute each and every follower of the Way that they met.  They’re essentially dead already,” Allen replied coldly.  “And do not assume that I have no regrets about this,” he added, cutting off a response from Fearmaster.

   Ten minutes later, Fearmaster was driving a still rather irate Allen towards their destination; an old abandoned school building where the Immortalists seemed to meet more often than any other place.  To make matters worse, strange lights and sounds had emanated from the building even when the cult wasn’t having one of their weekly meetings, which told Fearmaster that there had been ‘summonings.’  He shuddered at the thought of the last time he had run into something that had been summoned by a cult; he had never run faster or farther in his entire life, and that was only because he’d never had something that terrible chasing him.

“Keep your eyes on the road!” Allen suddenly yelled, grabbing the steering wheel and swerving the car out of its path, which would’ve caused them to collide with another car that had pulled out of a driveway hidden behind a large row of trees.

“I don’t want to die at fifteen years old!” he growled at Fearmaster.

“What?  You said you were five hundred!” Fearmaster replied, not daring to take his eyes off of the blacktop in front of him.

“I said Apollyon and I had been bound together for five hundred years.  I never said I was that old,” Allen remarked coldly.

“But that makes no sense!” Fearmaster answered, feeling a headache coming on.

“I was probably lapsing into Hell time.  Five years on Earth is five hundred years in Hell,” Allen explained, leaning his head back.

“So you’ve been to Hell?” Fearmaster asked, confused more than ever.

“No, but Apollyon watched over it, so his time and my time are often out of synch.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Well, that and he took me back in time five hundred years in the hopes that I would be able to help him stop the summoning that caused him to be bound to me,” Allen added.

“But if he was bound to you five hundred years ago, then that means that you’re five hundred years old!” Fearmaster said, feeling that he was back to square one.

“No, the summoning pulled him forward in time, taking him away from the Abyss on the same day that there was a large uprising of the more powerful demons in the Abyss,” Allen said with the air of explaining why two-plus-two equals four to a kindergartener.

“If Apollyon was there when he brought you, then why wasn’t he able to stop the uprising?” Fearmaster asked, making a very slow turn and causing the person behind him to honk the horn at him.

“Because he was bound to me and we didn’t have the time to grow accustomed to it, his power was far too diluted to do anything more than make them angry.  When he was beaten, I got curious and wanted to live through the five hundred years until the day he took me back, and he was too tired to argue, so I’ve been a shadowy figure drifting in and out of history for over a century,” Allen explained, though the edge in his tone was gone.

“So you were able to be reintegrated into your former life without any setbacks?” Fearmaster inquired, genuinely curious.

“Yes.  For the most part, at least.  I was much better in History class, though,” Allen answered with a sardonic grin.

“That’s the first time you’ve smiled since I met you,” Fearmaster pointed out, wiping the smile away immediately.

“You’ve only known me for roughly a day,” Allen said neutrally, looking out the window at the school building that was becoming more and more clear.

“True, but few people can go more than an hour without smiling,” Fearmaster argued, pulling into the school’s parking lot.

“I’ll bet you won’t be smiling for an hour or more when you recognize this place,” Allen muttered as he hopped out of the car.

   Looking at the abandoned school, Fearmaster realized that he did recognize it.  It was the same building he had been investigating when Briggs attacked him and killed his daughter, fleeing with his wife, who still hadn’t been found to this day.  He shivered involuntarily, and Allen glanced at him, though he said nothing.  Taking a step forward, the angel boy turned to him.

“Are you going to come in, or just wait out here while I complete the objective?” he asked.

A dark look suddenly crossed Fearmaster’s face.

“I’m coming in,” he said, walking past Allen and opening the door.

“You should’ve stayed outside,” Allen muttered to no one in particular, standing still for a moment before following Fearmaster into the building.

   Fearmaster stalked quietly through the very corridor he had been walking through so many years ago when Briggs attacked.  The window was still broken, and he had a sudden flashback, Brigg’s vengeful face glaring into his as he was hurled through the window, his knife flying out of his hands.  He nearly collapsed to the ground, but a strong hand was suddenly holding him up.  Turning, he saw Allen standing beside him, letting go when he was sure that Fearmaster wouldn’t fall.

“So where do these guys meet?” Fearmaster whispered.

“Down in the basement.  I’ll show you the way,” Allen answered, holding his hand out in front of him.

   Fearmaster blinked; there appeared to be light around Allen’s hand.  Then, he shook his head; for a moment, he had forgotten what Allen was.  Certainly humans with angels bound to them could do strange things; demon-possessed people were much stronger and faster than normal humans, so why shouldn’t angels be able to give their hosts part of their power?  That would make Allen even stronger, since Apollyon wasn’t simply possessing his body.

   Allen led him through a series of corridors, finally stopping at a large, wooden door.  Just beyond it, Fearmaster could hear voices chanting in unison, and the few words that were audible through the door made him shiver; he knew what language they were speaking.  It wasn’t a language anyone wanted to speak unless they were completely content with being tormented by Hell spawn for the rest of their lives.

   Suddenly, Allen thrust his hand forward, the light flaring brightly as it came into contact with what appeared to be a slight cloud of fog.  The fog exploded outwards, a stereotypical demonic form slamming into the wall parallel to Allen’s palm.  One of its horns was broken off, and its red skin was like a searchlight in the gloom of the building.  Getting to its clawed feet, it unfurled its large, bat-like wings and charged Allen again, slashing its razor sharp claws at him as it screeched loud enough that the windows of the school shook, much like the windows in the mansion had when Apollyon addressed Fearmaster.

   Ducking under the claws, Allen kicked it back into the wall, bringing both of his hands up in a fighting stance, both glowing with light.  Several other clouds of dark fog appeared around the corner of the hallway, however, each assuming a form identical to the demon that Allen was already fighting.  They all rushed at Allen together, and he growled under his breath.

“Erik, get down there and stop that ritual by whatever means necessary, and then come straight back up here.  If they catch you, they will kill you,” the angel boy said as he prepared for the demons.

“What about you?” Fearmaster asked.

“I’m partly an angel, and these are lesser demons.  Do the math,” Allen said coldly.

   Nodding, Fearmaster opened the door and ducked onto the dark stairway just as the demons and Allen collided.  There was a blinding flash that shined through the cracks in the between the door and the door frame, and multiple screams were heard on the other side.  Fighting the temptation to run out and help Allen, Fearmaster turned down the stairway, intent on stopping the ritual as he was told.  He also had a couple of questions to ask the leader of tonight’s little ‘meeting,’ and he had the feeling that this would be his only chance.

   Following the sounds of the chanting, he was led to a classroom door, one that appeared to have been closed for a long time.  He reached out for the handle, but it suddenly grew a mouth and tried to bite his fingers off.  Cursing under his breath, he pulled his hand back, kicking at the door.  Pulling out the gun, he shot the hinges off, ignoring the ringing in his ears as he kicked the piece of wood down.

   Arranged in a circle in the room were five people, each sitting at one point of the pentagram inscribed there.  They were all turned to look at the door, having heard the extremely loud gunshots.  There was a vacant look in all of their eyes, which were accented by dark bags underneath.

“Is this the AA meeting?” Fearmaster asked casually, hiding the gun behind him.

“Get him!  He must not be allowed to leave alive!” a tall, cloaked figure yelled, pointing to him with an almost skeletal hand.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go!” Fearmaster said, looking at his cellphone just for effect.

   Running through the hallway he had come from, he was aware of the fact that there were twenty or so hooded figures chasing him.  Worse, they were crawling on the walls and ceiling as well as running on the ground, hoping to overtake him.  And they were gaining on him.

“Next time I get a phone call from an angel,” Fearmaster gasped as he jumped over a lunging figure, “I’m hanging up!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Quite a pickle.  How can he possibly get out?  Well, that’s for you to decide!

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[Chinaren]

Mmm, tough one.  I was going to suggest dramatically diving out through window, but as they're in the basement...

So, he runs a while, firing over his shoulder etc, climbs into some kind of dumb waiter, goes up ten storeys and then jumps through the window, to land in a swimming pool/pile of boxes/passing truck/garbage.   

[NicTei]

Here you go, fresh off the press!  Well, not really, but you get what I mean.

[NicTei]

   While Fearmaster was pounding through the corridors, hoping to get away from the thoroughly annoyed Immortalists, Allen was standing over a demon, who was in actuality little more than a smudge on the floor with a head and arm.  It was retching a strange, soupy green substance onto the floor as it tried in vain to move its arm to claw out the boy’s throat.  Kicking the arm away, Allen kneeled down by its head.

“Now tell me:  who sent you?” he asked, still glaring at the demon.

The demon spat in his face defiantly.

   Wiping his face off, Allen stood up.  He moved over to the side of the demon, and then tapped the side of his toe to the side of the unholy creature’s face.  Without warning, he drew back and kicked it as hard as he could, sending it flying like a soccer ball down the hall, where it ricocheted between the walls, ceiling, and floor.  Casually strolling down the hallway, he stopped where the head had finally come to a halt in front of a door.

“I’ll ask you again:  who sent you?” he growled down at it.

“Who do you think?” the head growled at him.

“Fool!  Do you think I believe that you all answer to that condemned archangel?  I, for one, know that there’s no way that Lucifer would send you all the way up here just to watch over a bunch of Immortalists!” Allen replied, still glaring at it.

“You know nothing of our world,” the demon spat at him.

“So be it,” Allen said, getting to his feet.

   A bright light covered his hand, and the demon started to scream for mercy.  A sound like singing was soon heard, drowning out the demon’s scream.  With a blinding flash of holy light, however, the only sound to be heard was Allen walking back down the hallway to where he had left Fearmaster, where four other demon heads waited for his ‘interrogation.’

   Fearmaster thought he saw a flash of bright light coming through a vent that was connected to a hallway upstairs, but he wasn’t going to stop and look again.  The Immortalists were very much on his tail, even after all of his running, and the last thing he wanted to do was slow down.  He still had the image of his body, sans the head, hands, and feet, burned into his mind, though he suspected that they’d do worse to him for interrupting their meeting.

   Turning around, he fired his gun, catching one of them in the head.  He felt sick as gore sprayed everywhere, but that sickness was turned into horror as the hooded figure, who should’ve been very dead, picked himself up and kept running.  Spurred on by this development, Fearmaster took an unexpected turn into a stairway, taking the stairs three at a time as he went from landing to landing, all the way up the building, which had twelve floors.  Why there were so many floors in an old school, he didn’t know, but again: he wasn’t going to stop and think about it.

   Hearing a loud chorus of chanting below him, he looked down the stairwell just as the Immortalists began to fly, coming straight up through the space between each set of the almost spiral staircase.  Swearing under his breath, Fearmaster began pushing his stair-climbing abilities, jumping over four or even five stairs in a frantic rush to get out of the stairwell before they got in front of him.  Unfortunately, that effort was for not, as some of the Immortalists landed ten stairs above him, and others landed only five behind him.

“I suppose now would be a bad time to ask for directions to the nearest church?” Fearmaster said, hoping that what he suspected would be his last words were extremely insulting to the cult members that blocked his way.

“You’re coming with us,” one of the taller hooded figures said.

“To see the demon,” another continued.

“That fed off of your daughter’s soul,” a third finished.

   A strange rage awoke in Fearmaster as he glared at the people that had indeed summoned Briggs to this place.  Gripping his gun tightly, he aimed it for the tallest one.  Before any of the other cult members could stop him, he charged, shooting the first speaker in the chest and knocking him down.  Breaking through the new gap created in the wall of Immortalists, Fearmaster made it up the rest of the stairs and through the door to the stairwell, moving a conveniently placed metal desk in front of the door to block it.

   Upon noticing a sign that explained the door opened both ways, Fearmaster groaned and started running again, his throat burning and his legs feeling like jelly, but his mind and heart set on not dying.  Seeing an open window, he sincerely hoped that there would be a ledge he could hide on; he was already on the tenth floor, well above what he could survive falling from.  Forgetting to check beforehand, Fearmaster leaped out of the window just as the desk exploded away from the door, pushed by some unseen force, and Immortalists flooded the hallway, coming after him.

   As he fell, unable to grab onto the ledge that wasn’t there in the first place, Fearmaster’s thoughts turned to his daughter and wife, at least one of which was dead.  He remembered his silent vow to avenge them, and knew now that he would be unable to fulfill it.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ground coming up quickly and closed his eyes tight, hoping the pain would be quick.  What he felt, however, wasn’t pain, but the feeling of landing on something soft.  Well, relatively soft, compared to the hard concrete ground.

   Opening his eyes, he saw that he had landed in ten years worth of uncollected garbage, the pile having grown due to the amount of food that the Immortalists apparently consumed during their frequent meetings.  Since it was in a more secluded area of the school grounds, it hadn’t been seen by anyone that cared enough to bring it up at a city meeting, and so it had remained there to save Fearmaster’s life.

   Silently thanking the resourcefulness of the Immortalists, Fearmaster rolled off of the garbage pile.  Upon hearing shouts from above, he knew instantly that the cult members would be falling after him, then getting back up and killing him.  Reaching for his gun, he realized that he didn’t have it anymore; he must’ve lost it while he was falling.  There was no time for a frantic search, so he did the next best thing:  he tore off for the entrance to the parking lot like a little girl running from a particularly big spider.

   Upon hearing the sound of several large objects crashing into the garbage, he started to run faster.  It was only just reaching the afternoon, so Fearmaster wondered just why the cult had been having their meeting during the day.  He would’ve suspected that they’d wait until night time, but apparently not.  And now they were chasing after him in broad daylight, hoods, cloaks, and all.

   The sound of an engine revving met his ears, and the image of a hooded figure driving a truck over him entered his mind unbidden.  That wasn’t the case, however, as was soon shown by Allen sliding into view behind the wheel of Fearmaster’s car.  Accelerating, he turned the wheel hard, sliding sideways past Fearmaster and into the pursuing cult members.  Getting out of the car, he started to fend off the hooded figures, the light around his hand invisible because of the strong sunlight that was already present in the parking lot.

   Drawing his hand back, he slammed it forward with the palm open, hurling the Immortalist he had hit across the parking lot.  Something seemed to disintegrate out of the cloak as it flew, and when it finally hit an old basketball hoop, it was revealed to be merely an empty cloak.  Oblivious to this, the other Immortalists kept attacking him, producing knives out of their long sleeves.

   Ducking under a knife, Allen shoved his hand up into the hood, and the Immortalist dropped the knife, screaming as black powder began to fall from the cloak.  The sleeves went limp after a while, and Allen dropped the now empty cloak.  Fearmaster watched this in horror and awe until a loud bang cut through the air, and something impacted Allen’s chest, causing him to stagger backwards.

   Looking beyond him, Fearmaster saw that the tall Immortalist that he had shot before was holding the gun that he had dropped.  Putting two and two together wasn’t that difficult; the Immortalist had shot Allen.  Even a brain-dead monkey could’ve figured that out.  What was really capturing Fearmaster’s attention, though, was that Allen hadn’t fallen down.

   Instead, he drew his hand across the chest of the other Immortalist, which caused it to be thrown back as if it had been shot.  It, too, was reduced to an empty cloak, though Allen wasn’t watching it; he was charging the Immortalist that had shot him, who appeared to be laughing at him.  Thrusting his hand forward again, Allen hit the cult member in the stomach.  Fearmaster waited for the screaming and black powder, but nothing happened.  The Immortalist was still standing there, laughing at him.

“It would seem,” it said.

“That even angels,” a second hooded figure continued, appearing out of the shadows.

“Cannot stop the three of us,” a third one finished as it stepped out from behind the tallest of the three cult members.

“Perhaps,” the first started.

“You could,” the second continued.

“Try again?” the third finished.

   Allen growled and stepped back, though he didn’t attack again.  The three Immortalists were now standing side-by-side, tallest in the middle.  It was all beginning to make Fearmaster’s head spin.

“We’ll only,” the first said.

“Let you go,” the second added.

“This once,” the third finished.

“Well then, I guess I can thank you for your civility,” Allen said, sneering at the three.

   Allen started back towards the car, but suddenly whirled around and lashed out with a powerful kick, stopping the tallest of the three in mid-jump as it leaped to attack him.  It was sent flying back, rolling along the ground.  The other two, clutching their stomachs, rushed to his side, and Allen sprinted for the car, shoving Fearmaster into the driver’s seat.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted at Fearmaster as he watched the three cult members through the window.

   As he stepped on the gas, Fearmaster watched them through the rearview mirror, noticing for the first time that their cloaks weren’t black, but a dark grey, setting them apart from the other Immortalists that suddenly swarmed out of the school building.  Sighing with relief as they disappeared into the distance, Fearmaster tried to still his pounding heart.

“Too many brushes with death in one day,” he muttered to himself, recalling Briggs in Dean’s room and now the Immortalists.

“Of course.  You’re sitting in the car with him,” Allen said absentmindedly, looking out the window at the scenery as it passed by.

   Fearmaster had momentarily forgotten where he was and who he was with.  He had to admit: it was unnerving sitting in the car with the very being that had been present at every single death in history, guiding the souls of the departed to their final, and eternal, destinations.  A question suddenly occurred to him, but before he could ask it, Allen turned to him, a strange look in his eyes.

“You know that I cannot tell you that,” he said, a hint of regret in his voice.

“Please?” Fearmaster asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

“No.  It is against my ethics.  Ask Apollyon when he’s around,” Allen insisted.

“I must know!” Fearmaster begged, looking at Allen.

Something in the boy seemed to weaken, but it was suddenly strengthened again as his eyes returned to their usual coldness.

“The final resting place of souls is something that I cannot discuss with humans without express permission from Apollyon,” he said.

   Fearmaster just nodded silently, returning his gaze to the road.  He swallowed the anger he was feeling towards the boy; it really wasn’t his fault.  Then again, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know.  Or didn’t he?  Perhaps he wasn’t able to see what Apollyon had done while in control?

“Do not insult me.  I know quite well,” Allen said, breaking the sudden silence.

“Then why don’t you tell me!?” Fearmaster shouted before he could stop himself.

   Fearfully, he turned to look at Allen, expecting a glare or a look of anger.  What he saw, however, was a look of pity on the boy’s face.  It was soon replaced, however, with the usual cold, neutral stare.  Allen turned to look out the window again, letting silence rain again.

“Erik, I haven’t asked you many questions, have I?” Allen asked, though Fearmaster wasn’t in the mood to point out the irony.

“No.  You’ve mostly just given me orders,” he replied.

“Good.  Here’s another one:  don’t ask questions.”

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Whew!  That was a close call!  What happens now?

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[NicTei]

Well, there's your weekly fix of Fearmaster (for the one or two of you that are following this )!  I'm logging out right now, but I'll be back on in maybe an hour or so, depending on how fast I get to the computer after church.  I do have competition for it's use, you know!

At any rate, I'll likely be working on HeartEater at that time, which will be posted whenever it's finished.  So that's my day in a nutshell! 

[NicTei]

Come on, guys!  Suggestions, please!

[demonrogue]

Your story is pretty good Nictei although I can't give any suggestions as I  only read the last part of Fearmaster. I will try to read the earlier chapters and then I will give some suggestions.

What kind of suggestions would you like from us?

[Chinaren]

Upon noticing a sign that explained the door opened both ways, Fearmaster groaned

 

MMmm.  What happens now?  A tough one.  Wait, I've forgotten what he's doing with 'Allen'?  Was he protecting him? 

Anyway, I say he keeps on bugging him with questions, and eventually Allen tells him to take him to a graveyard and dig up his daughters grave, only for him to find it empty! 

[NicTei]

Upon noticing a sign that explained the door opened both ways, Fearmaster groaned

 

If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to give this one a little more of a sense of humor.

MMmm.  What happens now?  A tough one.  Wait, I've forgotten what he's doing with 'Allen'?  Was he protecting him?

No, pretty much the opposite.
 

Anyway, I say he keeps on bugging him with questions, and eventually Allen tells him to take him to a graveyard and dig up his daughters grave, only for him to find it empty! 

*speechless*

Oh, that is good!  Creepy, but good!  How do you come up with this stuff?