Dark Rites

He listened, gave brief answers and then hung up.

“Our young attacker-turned-suicide from tonight has been identified. He was Darryl Hillford of Framingham, twenty-five.”

“What a waste of life!” Rocky said.

“Sad,” Vickie agreed softly.

“Tragic,” Devin agreed.

“Except, of course, that he was willing to hurt other people. Possibly kill,” Rocky said flatly.

“Barnes did some checking on the guy, and I think we are looking at a ‘type’ that is easily maneuvered,” Griffin said. “He dropped out of college—too much debt, too many drugs and a few arrests. His past didn’t look so great. Alcoholic father, mother not in the picture. They’re doing a toxicology screen, of course, and we’ll know everything that was in his system tonight.” He paused for a minute, casting his head thoughtfully to the side. “I don’t think they will find that he was on drugs. He was doing what lots of people do...trying to find some kind of meaning for himself in the jumble of the world. He strayed onto a bad path. His last known address was a fraternity house, but he hasn’t lived there in over three years.”

“Well, then, he was living somewhere. If we can find out where...” Vickie murmured.

“Maybe we’ll find Alex!” Griffin said.

* * *

Alex was provided with an outfit to go over his jeans and T-shirt; it was a red cloak, conical hat and attached scarf-type mask, just like that worn by the man who’d called himself a high priest.

While other people were with him, none of them identified themselves—even by a fake name.

Not one of them seemed to even notice the headless corpse in the corner!

He tried to still his shaking hands. He didn’t know what the others thought, but he was pretty sure that the so-called “high priest” had left the rotting corpse there with calculated intention.

And now...

They led him out of the surgery room.

They didn’t speak much. There were four of them with him, two about his height, two a little shorter. He wasn’t even sure if they were men or women, young or old.

They brought him to a little cubicle. It had a heavy wooden door with a little panel that opened in so that he could be seen from outside. He was pretty sure that, once upon a time, such a space had held dangerous patients, the criminally insane.

Or perhaps those made dangerously insane by the crude treatment of the disabled in years gone by. Actually, he’d seen a few places where things hadn’t changed so much.

The small room had a cot. With a blanket. And a bedpan. That was it.

The blanket gave him hope.

He wasn’t going to die. The high priest seemed to want him. He had to play this right.

And pray that he wasn’t going to be asked to stick a knife into a living sacrifice!

He wasn’t shut up in the locked room for long. They came for him again—the four red-clad figures. They chanted as they led him out beneath the moonlight. Once, there had been something of a courtyard—a place where patients might have precious moments in the sun.

When there was sun, of course. It was, after all, Massachusetts. His mom used to joke that everyone should come for summer in Massachusetts—it happened every July 27.

He almost laughed aloud; he was so terrified, and grasping at strange, old memories.

He wondered if he was supposed to chant. He didn’t know what they were chanting, so he probably couldn’t chant with them.

Others joined.

He saw that an old tiled garden table had been stripped and set with inverted crucifixes. There was a large empty space on the table...

Room for the sacrifice!

Maybe there was no sacrifice. Maybe...

There would be a sacrifice. There was a large knife on the tiled surface. Its clean blade glinted in the dim light.

The chanting continued. They began to form a circle—twelve, all in all, including him. And then, as the chanting increased, another figure stepped into the center. He raised his arms, and he began to speak. At first, it was some other language—what, Alex just couldn’t be sure.

And then his words were in English.

“Do what thou wilt! For the day is coming, the day that is his! He will embrace his followers, those who bring him to flesh, to the pleasures of the flesh. For those who bring him to blood...oh, yes, the sweetness of the blood!”

As he spoke, a tall blonde woman was led into the group. She seemed to come willingly, but she walked as if she was in a trance.

She wore white where the others wore red.

Alex began to tremble.

Sacrifice...this beautiful young woman!

The high priest raised his hands. He reached down for the knife on the altar. He lifted it high.

Alex’s knees were giving; he was going to fall. They were going to sacrifice the young woman!

But the high priest continued to talk. “The time comes for the ultimate, as we prepare this world for he who is coming—he who will touch you all, and give you life and freedom. We prepare, we come closer and closer!”

Someone stepped forward, touching the young woman by the shoulders. The white gown fell to her feet.

No! He had to protest; Alex had to do something, had to stop this...

Alex heard a noise. A horrible bleating, a protest.

He turned.

It was a goat.

And as Alex watched, the poor creature was trussed up by a pair of the figures and stretched, screaming and terrified, over the altar.

And the knife went down on the creature’s belly and then its throat.

Blood sprayed across the table and down onto the cobblestones. The bleating stopped.