Ash Return of the Beast

CHAPTER 7



Three Months Earlier…

Cowl rubbed his eyes and squinted into the darkness. He was certain a voice had called his name. “Who’s there?” he asked again. “Is someone there?”

He started to rise from the chair but froze in mid-stance when he saw a shadowy figure begin to form in the far corner of the room. With a death-grip on the arms of the chair, he slowly lowered himself back down.

“You seem surprised, Rye Cowl,” the figure spoke. The voice was low, resonant, with an oddly hollow sound. “You should have been expecting me. We’ve been expecting you. Your ‘someday’ is closer than you realize.”

Cowl’s brow narrowed. “What? Who are you? How did you––?” Then, in an instant, he knew what was happening. “You’re… the Messenger?”

“I am.”

“But how? I mean––”

“The mescaline?”

“Yeah. I didn’t take––”

“It wasn’t necessary. I would have appeared to Mr. Moorehouse whether he was intoxicated with the drug or not. I come and go at the whim of my Master.”

“Your master? Who is your master?”

“In due time, Mr. Cowl. In due time. Right now you only need to know you’ve been chosen.”

“Chosen?”

“You’ve read the diary.”

“Yes, but––”

“Then you should be quite aware of what I mean.”

“But Michael Moorehouse was chosen, too.”

“Yes, and he failed. You will not.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s your destiny.”

“But what about the riddle? I’ve read it over and over. It makes no sense. I can’t figure it out.”

“You will.”

“But how? Will I have to drink the Soma?”

“You will do what ever you need to do.”

“But I don’t understand. If you’re so sure I’m the one––that this is my destiny, as you put it––then why should I have to prove myself by solving the riddle?”

“Call it an initiation. A rite of passage. The key to your ‘someday’.”

The word ‘someday’ resounded deep inside Cowl’s soul. He felt dizzy, disoriented. He closed his eyes and his skin crawled as he recalled, in excruciating detail, the horror of being tied to the bed with the weight of Pastor Pete’s naked, sweaty flesh pressing against him. “Damn you to Hell, you f*cking son of a bitch!” The sound of his own voice echoed throughout the mansion and snapped him out of his trance. He shook the vision out of his head, wiped the tears from his face and looked around. The visitor was gone.

Cowl sat still for several moments, dazed, wondering if the visitor had been real or some bizarre hallucination. No. It was real. It had to have been real.

He turned his eyes to the glossy black urn and then to the diary. He grabbed the diary and opened it to the page bearing the words of the riddle. I can do this, he thought with renewed conviction. I can f*cking do this. If it takes me the rest of my life, I can do this.