CHAPTER 2

It was a couple hours after midnight, and the sun wouldn’t be up for a while yet. Hildridge was exactly as Harper had left it, just slightly quieter. The ambulances had gone away. 

“Turn onto Chambers Road,” Alina instructed, with gestures halfway between pointing and waving. “Here. And, uh … here.”

Harper followed her instructions without comment, noting how empty the town felt - even for a rural area in the pre-dawn hours. Hildridge seemed somehow dead, like parts of its flesh had been carved out and devoured. 

“There’s the old chapel,” Alina said, pointing/waving at a white-painted house and steeple as they passed. “Or it was that … hard to think of it as anything but one of the cult’s stomping grounds now.”

Harper took note of the sign outside the chapel: it had another name once, but that was now scratched away. In its place was an arcane symbol that resembled a cloaked figure; above it, just five words were written:

THE PALE SIGN SEES ALL

“I’m guessing … services didn’t exactly resume as normal once the cult was gone,” he muttered.

“There’s no normal left, Officer,” Alina said. “Maybe there never was. The Pale Sign came in, brought out the filth and ugliness that was always there, and then left a bunch of broken people behind. Nobody can trust each other anymore: we’re all wondering, ‘were you in there, gorging on hate with the rest of them? Which side were you on when it counted?’

“I … was baptized here, you know?” She sighed. “Not that I remember the day well, but my mom talks about how beautiful it was, so full of love. Now … I don’t think people will be returning - ever. Even if they do, someday, the damage can never be undone.” 

“That’s …” Harper cleared his throat. “That’s a damn shame, miss. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I wasn’t really religious, anyway,” Alina said. “But you’re right - it fucking sucks.” 

The alleys were getting narrower, and eventually Harper turned the car onto Barree Road, where Alina pointed out their destination up ahead. Judging from the name on the building - Tennyson & Boris Capital - it was an old investment firm, likely one that had been abandoned for quite some time.

“Here?” Harper said incredulously. “The cult set up their base in a place like this?”

“Yeah, naturally. Easiest spot for ex-KKK members to blend in.”

Harper parked the car on the roadside, beckoning for Alina to follow him as they disembarked. He checked that his gun was ready in its strap; while the building looked empty, there was no guarantee of what awaited him inside. Even if the Pale Sign had completely gone away, some opportunistic rat might’ve decided to make this his new home.

“Look,” he said, “I have a feeling you won’t stay in the car even if I ask you to. So stay close to me, where I can keep an eye on you - but if we run into trouble, find a place to hide and do not move from that spot. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Alina muttered.

To his surprise, the front door was unlocked, swinging open at his touch. Harper entered with his flashlight in hand, dimly illuminating the former offices. What he saw looked like a place frozen in time, as if the building had been cut off from the outside world the moment the Pale Sign left. The most obvious anomaly was the calendar hanging on the wall, its date stuck five whole months in the past. Desks had been left unattended, with various scattered belongings - a backpack, notebooks, framed photos of family members - as the only traces of the former inhabitants. Blackened scraps of rotting food and apple cores stood like old dark relics, swarmed by hordes of fat, hungry flies. Harper wrinkled his nose at the stench. 

“It’s uncanny,” he said. “It’s like everyone was just working on their computers like normal one moment, and then the next … gone. Like the Rapture just up and took ‘em.”

“I doubt they saw it as the Rapture, though,” Alina said proudly. “Since it was a bunch of us ‘f*gs’ and ‘dykes’ invading their space, it probably looked more like an invasion from the depths of Hell.”

Harper grunted uncomfortably. He turned his light onto a corner of the office that looked relatively unscathed. The cubicles had less trash on them, but the water cooler lay broken on the ground, a single hole in its surface. 

“I remember that,” Alina said. “Carmine fired a warning shot, to let the cultists know we were serious. That could’ve easily led to a full-on shootout … and I think we were willing to fight to the death, if that happened. But I guess the Pale Sign realized we were finally playing the game by their rules, fair and square - so they immediately folded.” 

Harper opened a random desk drawer, finding various pieces of stationary along with a small notebook. No signs that these people had been planning a series of serial murders - not that he expected his first try to bear fruit. 

“And you’re sure the local police ‘cleaned’ this place out?” he asked.

“The cult kept most of their guns here,” Alina insisted. “Some had them right out in the open - I saw it myself. The cops must’ve just gotten rid of those, and any ledgers that might suggest they’d collaborated in the past. It wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t give a shit about the rest.”

“Then let’s hope the Pale Sign left a detailed manifesto on their upcoming killing spree behind,” Harper said drily. He flipped through the notebook; unsurprisingly, its owner had kept it as a journal, documenting his day-to-day activities and thoughts. The page he landed on read as follows:

“-SAW THOSE MOTHERFUCKING FAT-LIPPED QUEERS ON THE STREET AGAIN. EVEN AFTER ALL WE’VE DONE TO CLEAN UP THE STREETS THEY KEEP CRAWLING OUT LIKE VERMIN. UNTIL EVERY CHURCH IN TOWN IS PURGED OF THEIR SICKENING FILTH THIS IS NOT OVER. MAY THEY BURN IN SATAN’S FLAMES AND HAVE ALL THE ENGORGED, SHIT-STAINED COCKS TO CHOKE ON FOR ETERNITY. IF ANOTHER HOMO EVEN THINKS TO TEMPT ME WITH THEIR SINFUL WAYS-”

He closed the notebook. “I-It might be wider to search upstairs,” he coughed. “The leaders’ offices are where we’ll find evidence, if it exists.”

Alina didn’t respond. After a moment, Harper turned to get a closer look at her. The girl was staring at the wall, a confused frown on her face. “Huh,” she said. “I think that one’s new.” 

He followed her gaze, noticing the Pale Sign’s strange emblem had been painted on the wall. The marking was made in messy, red smears that Harper started to suspect wasn’t paint at all. His fears were confirmed when he saw what lay beneath: a pile of dead animals - mostly small rats, along with a squirrel, a hamster, and - most nauseatingly - a pregnant raccoon. All were cleanly sliced open, their bellies spilled out onto the floor, blood drained down to their bones.

“Definitely new,” Alina whispered.

Harper approached the sign, noting how the flies and maggots had ignored this side of the room, as if even those vile creatures were repulsed by this unholy sight. There were photographs arranged around the bloody symbol, many so blurry he could scarcely make out any details. 

One looked like it had been taken in a forest - perhaps the woods outside Hildridge? Another showed the inside of a toolshed, covered in rust and grime; yet another, a dark cavern of faintly glowing crystals. From there the images grew … stranger. 

A gothic castle-like structure wedged between mountains, adorned with curved stone spires that called an eagle’s talons to mind … A black sky in which swam constellations Harper had never seen in any textbook … a vast ocean that devoured the setting sun - only that couldn’t be the sun, as there were two great lights captured in film as they sank beneath the surface …

“What … what are these?” Harper asked hoarsely. He reached out to touch one of the pictures, as if making contact would somehow abate the unreality of it all. Before he could, though, he heard a noise from upstairs. 

Bump. Thud. He froze, then looked up at the ceiling, hearing those noises repeat. There was no mistaking it: those were footsteps - which meant Harper and Alina were not alone. 

He locked eyes with her, seeing her frightened expression. “Quiet,” he hissed, reaching for his gun. “Remember my instructions, got it?” Alina nodded.

They crept up the staircase, careful to not make any noise. The ascent felt interminably long, and Harper kept bracing for something (no, someone, he corrected himself) to peer out from above. He held his breath, unable to release the tension until they’d reached the top. 

At first glance, the upper floor looked more or less identical - just more desks and cubicles. But that normalcy was broken by the faint orange glow Harper saw, which didn’t appear to be cast by any of the office lights. 

In the corner, he saw them. Three cloaked figures, huddled around a single lantern, its flame slowly flickering. One dropped scraps of paper into fire, as if to rekindle it.

All three men knelt in reverence of … what Harper could only describe as a shrine: an animal skeleton - he thought it was a dog, or a large cat - hung crudely from the coat rack, stripped of all flesh. A white robe, yellowed by age, was draped around its shoulders like a king’s cape. The dead thing’s bony hands lay crossed over its ribcage, clutching … something.

Is that a box? Harper thought, silently approaching for a better look. Or, no … a book? 

One of the men’s heads jerked upward. Harper’s heart briefly caught in his throat, but he hadn’t been spotted - it looked more like the cultist was having a fit, or a seizure. He began to speak, but the voice sounded distorted, like a broken recording full of static:

“No mask!” he rasped. “He wears no mask … only his face - that terrible visage!”

Harper’s fingers closed over his gun, prepared to draw it at a moment’s notice. These people - he didn’t doubt they were Pale Sign members - were clearly unstable, but didn’t pose a threat yet. He took another step closer. 

“I can see it - I can see!” another of the figures whispered. “The hidden cities beneath the lake of fog … the shepherd beckons me to his flock, and I can no longer hide from the rain … the moons! O great black moons, spare me!”

“He comes to us!” the third man wailed. “The last seal is broken - now we are condemned!” He flung his head against the floor, the other mimicking him without hesitation. Harper watched this profane ritual play out with a sense of mounting, poisonous dread. 

Right. Well, even if they’re not connected to the Ripper, I can’t leave them alone, he thought. I’ll have to subdue them - cleanly, I hope - and bring them to the nearest station.

He glanced back at Alina, giving her a curt nod. The girl - who looked understandably horrified - backed away toward the stairs. Good, she had some self-preservation after all. 

Harper turned to see all three men staring straight at him. 

Their eyes were open wide, bright with red yet devoid of any life, streams of saliva dripping down slack-jawed mouths. They looked as deathly pale as their cloaks, with faces so deeply sunken there were barely any cheeks to behold and bone-thin fingers that trembled as if struck by some horrible affliction. 

Fingers that clutched the daggers, edges rusted with dried blood.

Shit! Harper went into fight-or-flight mode, his perception of time slowing to a crawl. He assessed his surrounding: Alina’s footsteps behind him as she ran for cover, the standard-issue Glock 19 as he pulled it free from its holster, and the closest madman rising to his feet, charging at Harper with his dagger raised and a shrill, savage cry ringing from his throat. 

In an instant, Harper took aim and pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash and a loud bang, and the cultists fell limply to the floor, blood spilling from the hole in his forehead. The sudden death only served to galvanize his companions, who advanced on Harper with an even greater frenzy.

He didn’t have time to set up another shot, so he went for the nearest desk instead. The second cultist, who had a larger frame and an unexpectedly wide jump, grazed the back of Harper’s leg with his dagger. Pain shot through his heel as he hid beneath the table, hearing his attacker scream while slamming the blade into the wooden surface. 

What’s with these maniacs? Harper thought, his heart pounding. Are they high on drugs? Suddenly, the dagger’s tip plunged through the tabletop, missing his head by mere inches. A torrent of curses escaped him as he fired upwards, hearing the man cry out in pain - followed by a heavy thud. 

Harper got out from behind cover, frantically aiming his gun around the room; there was no sign of the third cultist. Where is he? He wondered, before a more distressing thought occurred to him: He didn’t chase after Alina, did he? 

He walked slowly, glancing in every direction as he waited for the assailant to show himself. Harper crept along the cubicles, keeping an eye out for movement - and his ears ready to pick up on any noise. He inched closer and closer to the hallway outside, where Alina had fled. 

He eyed a closet on the other side of the room; that thing could probably hide a whole person. A light shuffling near his feet caught Harper’s attention, though, and he hurriedly looked down.

A swallowed, grinning face stared back at him, its owner squeezed and contorted underneath an office chair. The man’s chest heaved with deep yet silent breaths, twisting his back to fit in his hiding spot. Before Harper could even shout, the cultist flung the chair at him, blocking his view.

The Glock fired twice: once into the seat cushion, another bullet striking the floor. The cultist ran toward a dazed Harper, grabbing him by the wrists. They struggled for a bit, dagger and pistol hands fighting for dominance. Harper wasn’t so old that he was out of shape, but his attacker had the blessing of madness with him; he laughed wildly, eyes bulging as foam and spittle spewed from his lips. For a terrifying moment, Harper wondered if the man was rabid. 

Eventually, he regained control, pushing the cultist off him. Seeing the man reach again for his dagger, which had been dropped mid-scuffle, Harper shot him twice in the chest. The man collapsed with a surprised grunt, then lay still. 

Harper stopped to catch his breath, grateful for a moment’s reprieve. He glanced again at the dead cultists’ perverse idol, and the tome held in its skeletal grasp. What he’d witnessed here would take … much longer than a single night to unpack.

Had these men been behind the serial murders, or were they their own brand of insanity? The yellow Buick’s absence suggested the latter … but with their mouths shut forever, maybe the truth would never be found.

Wish I could’ve taken at least one of ‘em in for questioning, he thought, but oh well. Sighing, he turned to go check on Alina. 

He heard the high-pitched shriek, getting louder in the span of a second, but he was too slow to react. Harper whirled around, managing to take one step back before the dagger pierced his lower torso. Agony shot through him in a red-hot haze, and Harper looked into the unfamiliar face of the man who’d stabbed him.

Incoherent thoughts whirled through his head - a fourth man why didn’t I consider there’d be a fourth - as he went into shock, falling flat on his ass as the Glock slipped from his fingers.

Fuck. No, no, no, no … Ashamed at being caught off-guard, Harper was reduced to flailing his hands at the attacker, fruitlessly trying to shove him back. His assailant was unmoved, slowly pushing the dagger in as he kept staring at Harper. Bug-eyed and vacant, like a mental patient utterly detached from conventions of social decency. 

As his strength faded, Harper saw the man’s wrinkled lips part. “The Song calls the Stranger to this world,” he whispered hoarsely. “And the Song shall call him back. Now the depths of Hali lie empty … never again can Yhtill’s truths be hidden from innocent mortal eyes. You’ll see it too: the black moon rising from behind Carcosa …”

It was getting hard to breathe; he felt like some great beast was sitting on his chest, pressing the life out of him. He blinked through the pain, but his vision began to go blurry.

“All hail the Last King,” the cultist whispered. 

And then he screamed - not out of zealous fervour, Harper realized, but a sudden burst of anguish. One moment the cultist was upon him; the next, he was reeling back, clutching his face in a wild rage. 

“Get the fuck away, asshole!” To his shock, he recognized Alina’s voice, perceived her standing next to him. She ran at the struggling cultist, a small pink-capped can in her hand. “You didn’t learn your lesson, and this is what you get!”

She maced him again with the pepper spray, knocking the guy down to the floor. Not missing a beat, she pulled her fist back before delivering a hefty punch to his chin. The man whimpered from the blow, twitching for a few more seconds before going silent.

Harper gingerly sat up, cringing at the pain in his side. “Y-You … I thought I told you to hide, miss.”

“Oh, come on,” Alina grumbled. “I was hiding, but I couldn’t just do nothing while he was killing you. Speaking of which …” Her eyes widened, staring at the dagger still lodged in his torso. “Shit. That looks … really serious.” 

“It didn’t hit any vital spots,” Harper gasped. “I think. First, help me restrain this son of a bitch before he wakes up … and then you can put those famed residency skills of yours to good use. Yeah?”

“Okay.” All in all, she carried herself remarkably well as she searched the office for rope, settling on black power cables long enough to tie someone’s hands with. Alina - and Harper, with considerable effort - worked together to bind the surviving cultist’s wrists. He breathed softly throughout the process, but showed no signs of stirring. 

With that done, Alina raided the pharmaceutical wing, which thankfully had some medical supplies left. She brought Harper painkillers to ease his suffering, and antibiotic ointment and a washcloth to clean the wound. Wisely, she chose not to risk pulling the dagger out, which could’ve made the bleeding catastrophically worse. 

Of all things, though, she couldn’t find bandages to wrap around the injury. “Ugh. Screw it,” Alina said, and pulled off her shirt. Harper opened his mouth to protest, but thankfully she wore a light blue camisole underneath. He didn’t mean to, but his eyes were drawn to her.

It wasn’t out of perversion; he couldn’t help checking whether she really had a woman’s body. Her breasts were noticeable if not large, and there was faint scarring around her chest where the skin was exposed. Seeing her, Harper felt … what? Reassured that she at least looked female? Aghast that this child of God had desecrated her own body to this extent?

In truth, the sight gave him neither satisfaction nor catharsis. He wasn’t relieved, and he didn’t seethe with righteous anger. He was only left with the hollow shame of a voyeur. 

Harper looked away as Alina tied her shirt around the dagger’s hilt, stopping the bleeding. “You, er, didn’t let me know about the pepper spray,” he muttered.

She snorted. “I decided I’d trust you, Officer, but not that much. If things turned dangerous, I wasn’t gonna let myself lose my one method of self-defence.” 

Harper was tempted to reprimand her for her secrecy. But, well … if she’d come clean about the pepper spray from the start, he would likely have confiscated it. And if she then had nothing to wield during the struggle earlier …

He let it slide. This time.

“So these are the Pale Sign,” he said, glancing around at the cloaked bodies - one moving, three still. “Were their people always this … kooky?”

“Not like this,” Alina whispered. “I mean, they were always insane religious freaks, but the way these guys acted … and whatever the hell that is …” She glanced at the shrine, then shuddered and averted her gaze. “Anyway. Do you have … a lot of experience, killing people as a cop?”

“I’ve done it enough times.” He coughed, gingerly rubbing his bandaged side. “Or, wait, let me guess: you’re asking if I raise my gun at anyone who isn’t a smiling white man.”

“N-No, that’s not what I-”

“Never mind. It’s fine.” Harper raised his hand, wincing at himself. Apparently, the painkillers had also dulled his sense of humour. “I’ve always been diligent in keeping lethal force as a last resort. Only when the danger is so great, it becomes worth the risk: to prevent civilian casualties … to deal with a hostage-taker who’s beyond negotiating with … or when it’s their life or mine, like tonight.”

“I see,” Alina muttered. “And you think that makes you a good cop?”

“That question doesn’t matter to me, Miss Rhodes. I find very little use in labels of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ when everyone would rather see themselves as ‘good.’” 

“So you’re numb to it, then. Is that what happens when the killing gets easier?” 

“It doesn’t get easier,” Harper said bluntly. “That’s one thing you can never understand, looking in from the outside. You either have an affinity for death or you don’t, and you can’t know which camp you’re in unless that fateful moment comes. Afterward, you start learning how to pretend … or you realize you don’t have to.”

He saw her conflicted expression. It would be cruel to push the issue further … but she’d gotten her questions. He was allowed his own. 

“If, when your people confronted the Pale Sign,” he said, “things had turned for the worse, do you think you could’ve taken a life? To protect yourself, or your loved ones?” 

“I’d have done it,” she replied, her voice shaking. “If I’d had a gun at that moment, I would’ve shot each and every one of them dead where they stood.”

“Like I said, you can’t be certain of that until-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Alina snapped. “You talked about ‘danger’, Officer. Well, I’m in danger every single moment of my life. Just living as who I am, where I am, paints a massive target on my back. You’re right about one thing: when it’s your life or theirs, you don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Harper said. 

“Sure, we’re the ones who have to choose,” she scoffed. “The ball’s in our court to be forgiving, to take the moral high ground, to not give in to division or violence or anger. The fascists can talk about jailing and killing us all they like - it’s just their nature - but oh, we need to be better than them at any cost. If we all hold hands and sing about love and peace for long enough, maybe they’ll stop wanting us dead! Maybe they’ll realize the error of their ways, and then we can all be one big happy family!

“What if, for once, we stopped putting up with their shit? No more letting our enemies set the terms of acceptability. Nothing pleases them more than knowing we won’t dare stoop to their level. What would happen if we did?” Her eyes were ablaze with passion now, like when she’d first spoken to him back at Cassilda. “I saw a glimpse of it, the last time I was here. Maybe this is what we should all do - not just here in Hildridge, but everywhere my brothers and sisters are struggling. Instead of taking the high road, we run them the fuck off of their own.” 

Harper knew the girl wasn’t in a proper state of mind. Her adrenaline, along with the inherent stress of the situation, was causing her to speak and act rashly. He wanted to calm her down, remind her that a police officer was the last person she should say such things to. Now might actually be a good time to get her home, while also going to the hospital for his injury. 

But those actions would have to wait, because their captured prey was starting to wake up.

“The stars … the stars…” the cultist mumbled deliriously. “Where have the stars gone? Only the false moon …”

“Welcome back to the land of the living, jackass,” Harper growled. “Look, I’ve still got your damn knife to remember you by.”

The man smiled vacantly, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “A-a-a-ahhh … mister officer. I am sorry … it seems I could not cut quite deep enough.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Harper said coldly. “My companion here must’ve scrambled whatever was left of your brain. But even so, I have questions for you now.” 

“Questions, questions,” he mimicked in a sing-song voice. “No such things, officer. Nor answers. Only the truth, in all its terrible simplicity … and the empty virtues of the ignorant.”

“I don’t give a single fuck about your philosophical bullshit or whatever you’re selling. Answer me: are you and your buddies responsible for the recent murders around town? The ‘Hildridge Ripper’ - is he actually the four of you?” 

The suspect gave no indication of listening, and simply looked off into the distance. At something Harper could not see. “It’s coming back … once you’ve glimpsed him, he will never let go. It remains within you, growing, growing …”

For fuck’s sake, he thought. Before he could find some other approach, however, Alina stepped into view. She beheld the man with a look of searing hatred that chilled Harper to the bone.

“Look who came crawling back,” she spat, “like a headless cockroach. Hey again: I don’t suppose you recognize me?” 

The cultist stared at her; his eyes narrowed slightly. For the first time, he shook against his bonds, as if the idea of escaping had only just occurred to him. His sudden silence annoyed Harper: There go our hopes of getting anything from him, he wanted to chide the girl. 

“ … You should unmask as well,” the man whispered.

“What?” Harper and Alina glanced back in surprise. There was more … clarity in his voice now. 

“Remove that hideous mask.” He gnashed his teeth, a semblance of focus dawning on his expression - like static fading from the TV screen. “Vile, heathen child … wearing a mask of sin and trickery! Unburden yourself of it, so the world may see you for what you truly are! Only then can your kind be spared from the fiery depths of Inferno!” 

Alina rolled her eyes. “Now that’s more like the Pale Sign I know.”

Harper didn’t understand the change, but he refused to let this opportunity go. “I ask that you leave the civilian lady alone,” he said calmly. “Now let’s start over. First: what is your name?” 

“Zachary … Cross.” The man spoke his own name with reservation, as if he were coming out of some trance. “I am … I was a humble accountant, living in service of the Heavenly Father … before the high priests of the Pale Sign showed me the way. They gave me a role in fighting the agents of Lucifer here on Earth.”

“And who might these ‘agents’ be?” Harper asked.

“You already know, officer,” Zachary said softly. “The foul interlopers among us. The blacks and the queers and the communists, worming their way in to destroy our precious ways of life. People like you.” He turned to Alina next. “We could have saved you: you and all the other whores of Cassilda … but the time for that is long past.” 

“Then … was it you?” Harper’s heart beat with excitement at this potential breakthrough. “Were you behind the attack on Cassilda?” 

“Attack …? Oh, yes, we had such plans for it.” A smile crept over Zachary Cross’s face. “All of our guns and explosives would have served us well in our holy war. Bullets ripping through Cassilda's walls, each one landing in some homo's skull - why not two? The more the merrier. We’d drench your sanctum in gasoline and set it all ablaze, giving you a taste of what awaits you in eternal damnation. For those we took alive, maybe we’d have some fun. Use your squirming bodies for target practice, cut off those disgusting fake tits, purify your women - the real women … if only you hadn’t acted so soon, it would have come to pass.”

Harper swallowed, bile rising in his throat. He’d heard monsters brag about their deeds - real or imagined - many times, but something in this man’s voice haunted him. Perhaps it was the contrast: his earlier ramblings had been manic, barely more coherent than an asylum patient.

But now it was different. Zachary’s gaze was clear, and he spoke eloquently and calmly as that smile remained unmoved. Harper had no doubt that, in this moment, he was speaking to a sane man.

“Thanks for confirming what I suspected: we should have killed you all when we had the chance,” Alina said, earning her a dirty look from Harper. “But for someone so devoted to God’s word, you sure haven’t been very Christian-like lately.” She pointed to the shrine. “Since when did the Pale Sign get into worshipping false idols?”

Zachary turned, his eyes following her finger. As he beheld the animal skeleton, his smile faded, and his entire complexion turned pale as ash. “Oh … oh God, my God,” he murmured, trembling as he bowed down to the floor. “What have we done? God, why have you forsaken me?”

“What do you mean, ‘what have we done’?” Harper snapped. “This grotesque thing is your doing, isn’t it?” 

“After the devil-spawn chased us out of town,” Zachary hissed, “we of course plotted our retaliation. The high priests spoke of an old legend, an artifact we could wield to bring ruin on our oppressors. Use demons to fight demons. For weeks we searched: from forests to caves, to places your primitive minds could never fathom …”

“And then you returned empty-handed,” Alina said. 

“Empty? No, no … we found it.” His breath quickened, slowly reverting to his previous mannerisms as he stared at the shrine - and its strange treasure. “But our salvation became our ruin instead. That fucking book … if only we’d burned it, or buried it so deep it could never be pulled from the earth again … but now it’s too late. Already we are … his thralls, each and every one of us …”

Harper went and took the tome from the animal’s cold, dead hands. This is … an ‘artifact’? He saw a strange, closed figure on the front cover, adorned with an ornate crown. Old, worn-down letters spelled out the title: THE KING IN YELLOW. 

That name … he swore he’d heard it somewhere before. Harper racked his brain: Wasn’t there a really old horror book with that title? Surely this couldn’t be what the cult cared so deeply about finding? 

While he pondered this latest mystery, Zachary had regressed even further. He was back to babbling incoherently, his body swaying back and forth like a pendulum. Whatever brief cloud of sanity had passed over him, it was gone now. 

“Now what do we do with him?” Alina asked.

“I suppose I’ll have to take him down to the station,” Harper sighed. “Someone there can hopefully find out what the hell his problem is. And I’ll be dropping you off there, too.”

Alina froze. “What? No, you can’t do that.” 

“Yes, I can,” he said as gently as possible. “The situation’s changed, miss. You’ve already been exposed to danger once tonight - and that’s one too many. Whatever agreement we made before is null; I won’t risk putting you in harm’s way again.” 

“I-I refuse,” she whispered. “I won’t go to the Hildridge Police. Never. Don’t leave me alone with them.” 

Harper didn’t understand her consternation, but he saw no need to push it further. “Fine, then - I won’t,” he said. “You can tell me your address on the way - or a close enough spot, if you prefer - and I’ll take you there. You can get some much-deserved rest, and I’ll continue the hunt for the Ripper myself … once I get this dagger outta me, that is.” 

That seemed to calm her down. Harper carried the book under one arm, while he and Alina both held Zachary by his bound wrists. He continued shaking as he was dragged out of the building, his motions only getting more desperate with each second. By the time they were outside, it was difficult to keep him still.

“Quit struggling,” Harper growled. “We’re not going to hurt you any further. See, the car’s right over there. Now be a man and come quietly.” 

“The car …” Zachary mumbled. And then, abruptly, a new change came over the man. Although neither Harper nor Alina struck him, he jolted forward and raised his head, releasing a primal, hellish scream that surely reverberated across Hildridge. “No, no, NO!” he howled, veins popping in his neck. “I escaped you … leave me be! BEGONE FROM THIS WORLD, VILE DECEIVER!” 

With a mighty effort - and seizing on his captors’ surprise - he wrenched himself free from their grasp. “Shit!” Harper yelled as Zachary fled from them, his hands still firmly tied. “Fucking idiot - where do you think you’re going?” 

“He’s not gonna escape,” Alina said. Zachary raced down the street, stumbling over himself all the while. Quickly gaining on the man, she reached out to grab him.

In that instant, it struck again - the inexplicable yet near-infallible officer’s instinct. “Wait. Miss Rhodes, WAIT!” Harper ran toward her even before hearing the grotesque, metallic roar, before the quiet street corner was bathed in the jarring gleam of headlights. He moved as quickly as his strength would allow, ignoring the new explosion of pain in his injured side. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her back onto the sidewalk. 

He wasn’t a moment too soon. From the corner of his eye, he saw the speeding form of the yellow Buick Regal, little more than a blur as it rushed past where Alina had stood seconds before. Trails of black oil were left in its wake, filling the vicinity with a terrible, acrid stench.

Unimpeded, with the speed of a large missile, the Buick slammed directly into Zachary Cross. There was no scream - or if there was, the ear-splitting sound of the crash drowned it out. The cultist was sent flying into the sky, looking almost graceful as he flipped once, twice in midair. 

He landed in a bloody heap on the road, his legs and spine sprawled out in a grotesque tapestry. Yet to Harper’s amazement, he remained alive, limbs twitching as his chest rose and fell in short, faint gasps. 

The Buick came to a stop, then backed up to where Zachary’s body lay. The passenger door slowly opened, and Zachary began to move - inch by inch, he was dragged into the car’s stomach.

“S-Stop right there and get out!” Harper shouted. He tried getting a look at the driver’s seat, but it was too dark. When he reached for his gun, his fingers trembled too much to manage a safe grip.

Alina, too, stood frozen in fear - but right now, that was likely for the best. They watched as, in a manner of seconds, Zachary was completely devoured. The Buick’s engine growled like a predator satisfied by its meal, and it soon took off once more. 

Alina broke free from the spell first. “I knew it - I fucking knew it!” she hissed. “It is their car - same licence plate and everything! What are we waiting for? We have to go after them!”

“I … know!” Harper grunted, limping toward his car. With his wound re-opened, every step was fresh torture; he was aware of his warm blood soaking through Alina’s shirt. “Hang on, just a second …” He fumbled with his keys, until he finally managed to unlock the doors. 

Suddenly, Alina ran ahead of him, gunning for the front seat. “What are you doing?” Harper said. 

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m driving.” She shook her head as he opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t argue: there’s no way you can focus on the road in that state. And it’s fine: I have a driver’s licence.” 

“This is a police vehicle!”

“Well, it’s an emergency, and there’s no time to waste.” Alina turned on the ignition, her hands on the steering wheels. Groaning, Harper pulled himself into the passengers’ seat. In a daze, he realized he’d held onto THE KING IN YELLOW through it all. He kept the book close to his chest as he lay down, trying to breathe through the pain.

With the car doors closed, Alina stepped on the gas, and then they were back in pursuit of the Buick. This time, they wouldn’t be chasing a cold trail.

Maybe I should give that retirement plan another look, Harper thought groggily. Relieved that the girl seemed a competent driver, he entrusted himself to her hands, and closed his eyes for some rest.

---

It was dark in the belly of the beast.

Trapped inside the Buick Regal, Zachary Cross drifted in and out of consciousness, between the blissful illusions of sleep and the agonizing reality of his existence. He felt caught in two worlds at once: he recalled being a humble acolyte of the Pale Sign, a loving father and husband who would do anything to protect his family and country.

Yet he had also become someone else: an empty vessel of flesh and nervous machines, his immortal soul bound in servitude before the Last King.

Zachary awakened, and then all that remained was the pain. He wanted to scream, but his mouth was dry as parchment. His skin and bones were shattered from the collision, his limbs now unresponsive, bloody rods. He certainly hadn’t tied his own seatbelt, yet now he was strapped in place, denied even the facade of a struggle.

It was warm inside the car - far too warm for this time of year. Worse, there was a moistness around him, and a faintly dank stench pervaded his little prison. Outside, they were moving - moving fast. Hildridge’s streets passed by in a blur - neighbourhoods he’d down like the back of his hand. Zachary knew, with mounting despair, that he would never see them again.

“Who are you?” he screamed, though he already knew the answer. “Where are you taking me?” As if that mattered. Craning his head with all his strength, Zachary managed a look at the driver’s seat.

It was empty. Of course it was.

Suddenly, his own seat lurched forward. Zachary howled, his body pulled and bent until he faced the floor, blood rushing to his head. He began to pray, knowing there was no one to hear his pleas.

“My God, in Him I will trust. I shall not be afraid of the terror in the night, nor the evil that walketh in darkness, because I have made the Lord my refuge. Because I have set my love upon Him, therefore He will deliver me …”

He heard the car growl, like it was laughing at him. Zachary’s body continued to turn; soon he was practically upside down, and it was getting impossible to breathe. His feet touched the ceiling - was the damn thing getting smaller? He could smell steel and burning leather, parts shifting as if they were alive. 

Something slipped around his leg: it felt like a seat handle, in a physically absurd spot. “Make me to know your ways, O Lord,” he whimpered as it constricted him. “Teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation …”

What had been tasting Zachary then decided to take its first bite. Like a ring it closed tightly, tearing at his leg until, with a deafening snap, the limb came right off. His blood flowed through the open wound, cascading down on him like a fountain. 

The pain was unbearable. Like the condemned sinners on Judgement Day, he screamed and thrashed against his reckoning as it came due. It hurt so much he was sure he would die, yet no such mercy came. The red-hot sensation was a reminder that his life was not tied to its flesh, his leg just a bundle of joints and wires.

So great was his suffering, it called to mind when he’d first learned of pain. He’d been five years old, going down the slide at the playground, when he’d suddenly gone over the edge. The next thing he knew, he lay on the grass, crying as he held onto his scraped knee. He wrestled, afraid and confused, with this strange new feeling. 

He recalled his mother’s voice, gentle yet humorous: “Oh sweet child, it’s only pain. It will hurt for a while, and you can cry if you like, but it always passes. The hurting is just one part of life: you can’t escape it, but it can never control you.” She’d placed a little pink Band-Aid on the scrape, kissed him until he felt better, and given him a glass of apple juice to drink. 

“Mama …” Zachary groaned. The car’s insides tightened even further; its gears became vicious metal fangs, embracing and piercing his body in deep, greedy gulps. “Mama, where are you? Help … me … please, make this go away …”

Mama had been his first saviour, his refuge. He had no earthly Father, and he wouldn’t discover his Father Above for many years yet. But then she’d gone away, taken by the tumours in her breast, and Zachary was left on his own.

He’d done his best to protect himself, and - eventually - protect others as well. First came Constance, whom he’d sworn to love and cherish since first glimpsing her in that red dress at senior prom. Then there were Tessie and Genevieve, the sweetest and most beautiful little girls in the world. With God as his witness, he would protect them from any and all threats. 

And there were threats abound. He saw it everyday on the news, posted ad nauseum on social media, repeating among his friends and coworkers. He watched in horror as coloured men smashed windows and cars in their primal rage, treading on the peace of innocent, law-abiding citizens' lives. There were demons who wore masks of female skin, blending in with unsuspecting girls to prey on them. Girls like his - just the thought of it made him faint! Oh God! Zachary lamented day in, day out. God, what is this world coming to? 

Worse, the savagery did not end at the street level. His own leaders - the officials he elected, the businesses he supported, even the schools he entrusted his children to - were complicit in this takeover. They gleefully let the monsters in by the dozens, showered love on predators while their victims were left in the dust. 

When the Pale Sign arrived in Hildridge, it was like the last light of sanity in a decaying world. Zachary had gone to their sermon, and the priests’ words left him weeping with joy for the first time in years. He met with them many times - founders and new recruits alike - making friends whom he valued with all his heart. They prayed together, ate meals together, shared stories of their lives and aspirations. 

Above all, they were united by a common ideal: love for Hildridge. Love for America. Love for a bright future promised to all the good men and women of the world.

My girls will no longer have to grow up in fear. That thought comforted him on the darkest nights. They can live and flourish in a world without monsters.

Where had it all gone wrong? Surely it was when those demons had gotten bolder than anticipated, forcing the Pale Sign to flee their homes. But even then, there had been a chance for redemption. They could have turned to their brothers elsewhere in the country, begged the police to honour their debts, or simply laid low for a while.

Instead, they’d given in to desperation. Cut off from their stockpile of weapons, their carefully laid plans in disarray, they’d sought help elsewhere. From a higher, yet also lower source. An unholy source.

He remembered now. As more pieces of him were nibbled and bitten off, Zachary felt that other self re-emerge: the vessel. The condemned soul who’d seen darkness and been changed by it. They’d scoured worlds in search of the book. There’d been a ritual … High Priest Murdock had sung the summon chant himself, calling the ancient visitor to this realm.

And then …? Afterward, he recalled only brief flashes of chaos, and the same hopeless terror he felt now. 

He was descending, lowered closer and closer to the floor. One claw slithered across his face, caressing his left eye - almost gently - before stabbing right through. If he had any sense of feeling left, he would have cried. Instead, he simply lost half his sight. Viscera spilled from the socket as, with his remaining vision, he stared into the centre of the car.

The engine rumbled again. Zachary’s captor, tired of playing with its food, was ready to feast. Slowly, the floor began to split apart, revealing the space hidden underneath. The gaping void rose up to swallow him.

Yet he felt no fear - nor anything at all. Zachary Cross was dead long before the thing in the car fully sank its teeth into him. His mind, with whatever sanity remained in it, was obliterated at the first glimpse of his devourer’s true form. What was then chewed, mangled and thrown back up was only a puppet of meat, lacking anything that resembled a human being.

Which was exactly what Alina and Harper found on the road when they passed through. Only meat. 

(To be concluded)