Huddled over the night desk, Charlie Evans was working on a Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

He heard a creaking sound, and he didn't need to look up to know that Bill the Cook was wheeling a mess cart down the corridor. He could smell the rice and beans that Lionel Mesadieu, a.k.a. the Black Magic Killer, had chosen as his last meal.

"Evenin'," said Bill. "If you want to spit in this, you'll have no quarrel with me."

"Thanks, but I’ll pass," Evans replied.

Bill and his cart disappeared down the corridor.

Evans returned to his puzzle, distracted by the anticipation of what was to come. The day was finally here; no more appeals. Tonight, Lionel Mesadieu, who had systematically murdered seven families, would go to the electric chair. Evans, a guard at Northern State Penitentiary for ten years, was relieved to know that he would never again hear Mesadieu taunting him through the bars of his cell, would never again hear the man chanting and singing and recounting his horrible crimes on long nights like this.

It was a short time later that Father Sullivan, the prison chaplain, appeared from the end of the cellblock. Again, so tuned to the sounds of the prison was Evans that he immediately recognized the old chaplain's earnest stride. Father Sullivan was bathed in sweat and breathing heavily, as though he had recently completed a marathon.

"I am nearly at my wits' end," he said. "The man is unrepentant. He speaks in tongues, he tries to bewitch me with curses and spells. There are many demons in him. I don't know that I can save his soul."

"Don't try, Father," said Evans, who had a family of his own and no mercy for killers. "I've talked to Mesadieu — I've heard his mumbo-jumbo. He claims he can see the future, possess the bodies of others, talk to the dead. He slaughtered thirty people. Scum like him ain't worth saving."

Sullivan smiled sadly, and Evans marveled, as he always did, at the warmth in the minister's blue eyes. Evans wasn't the religious type, but he admired the chaplain's compassion for his fellow man — even filth like Mesadieu.

"Saint Augustine said that God loves each of us as if there were only one of us," said Sullivan. "To the sinner who repents, the Lord offers eternal life."

"Good luck," said Evans, checking his watch. "It won't be long before they flip that switch. Be careful — one thing you said was true: that man's got the devil in him."

Sullivan returned to his duty. Minutes later, the procession began: Warden Thompson, the witnesses, the attending physician, and of course, the state electrician, who passed the desk with the calm expression of a man stepping out on his lunch break.

Evans puttered around with his crossword puzzle, and at eleven o'clock, he heaved a pent-up sigh when the overhead lights flickered, faded, and then, like the sunrise on a new day, returned to brightness. It was over. Justice had been done.

Evans heard a cellblock door open, followed by footsteps he didn't quite recognize. He was in the middle of trying to solve 16 Down — Dracula starlet Carol Marsh's middle name — and he barely noticed when the stranger stopped at the night desk.

The stranger spoke, and Evans heard what he thought was a French Creole accent, and he looked up at the familiar face of the prison chaplain, but the eyes looking back at him were the watery brown eyes of Lionel Mesadieu.

"Eternal life, jus' like da preacher be promisin'," said the thing that had been Father Sullivan, and the last thing Charlie Evans smelled were the beans on its breath.

“I think we need to research this more. There must be another way…”

“You know there isn’t. “ I whispered back. “We talked about this.”

“No, you talked and I was foolish enough to listen. I don’t think we should be here, what if…”

“Be quiet. This isn’t the time to quarrel. This is the last night of the new moon, when he’s at his weakest. If we don’t do it tonight, we’ll have to wait until the next cycle. He’ll be stronger, more powerful…more vicious. It has to be tonight.”

Steve fell silent. We continued through the cemetery, our flashlights dancing over the toppled headstones. I felt the anticipation rise within me; tonight it would end.

We walked through the silent graveyard, listening. But the only sound was the soft brush of our feet against the brown winter grass.

Within minutes we found what we were looking for. At one time, the mausoleum had served as a monument to its builder; but like the ancient pyramids, thieves and vandals had ravaged it.
Spray paint marred its marble exterior, claiming it for some unknown gang. An ornate cast-iron gate dangled from one hinge in a feeble effort to protect its occupants. The entire tomb reeked of neglect.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d have ignored it. But recently I had discovered its secret.

I pushed past the gate and was greeted by the smell of damp earth, rotting vegetation and a sickly-sweet smell I refused to name. I could hear Steve gagging behind me as I systematically ran my light over the names stone coffins.

“Jeremiah….Emily…Josiah…Sarah…”

“You found it?” Dread filled Steve’s voice.

“Do you have it?” I asked. I watched as he pulled a small vial from his pocket. Satisfied, I turned back to the coffin and examined the inscription on its lid.

Jonas Eliason, Chaplain to the Army of the Potomac, 1811 – 1863. May God Have Mercy on His Soul.

Stone ground against stone as I pushed the lid aside. Behind me, I could hear Steve praying.

Light glinted off of shiny brass buttons as I looked at Chaplain Eliason. Almost 150 years after his death, his presence was still commanding. Arms stiffly at his side, he was at full attention even in death. Wisps of a white goatee clung to a skeletal face. And across his chest lay the sword…

Adrenalin surged through me as I reached for the hilt. Suddenly, an inhuman scream rent the air. It filled the tomb, echoing and growing. I grabbed the sword. Now was the time.

Steve was slowly backing away from the door, praying in earnest. He clutched the vial in his hand as if it were his lifeline. Holding my great-grandfather’s sword, I waited.

I’d heard the stories all of my life, but nothing could prepare me for the reality. The creature burst through the door with a rebel yell, the remains of its uniform hanging in gray tatters. Its red eyes glowed with hatred and the bayonet on its gun gleamed dark with blood.

Silence fell as it saw the sword in my hand. For a moment, I thought it would flee. Then, with another yell, it charged. I waited as the monster closed the gap between us. Ten feet….eight feet…five feet...

The sword cut through the air then severed the creature’s head. Its lifeless body crumpled to the ground while the still-screaming skull rolled across the floor. I poured the vial of Pennsylvania soil over it and watched it shatter and turn to dust.

Finally, my grandfather’s murder had been avenged.

Through the window I could see that I had arrived just in time. The monster had the children lined up against a wall and was pointing a razor-tipped claw at each of them in turn. “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Mo; Pick a manchild by the toe…” From their stricken faces and sobbing cries I could tell that they knew what being picked meant in this game. Their tormenter kept glancing back at their mother, reveling in her obvious horror.

In a heartbeat I sliced through the screen and leapt into the room. As I half-expected, it didn’t even turn to face me, knowing that no human was a threat. It finished the rhyming song and reached a clawed hand toward a trembling six-year-old boy in Spiderman pajamas. The child squeezed his eyes shut in anguished anticipation.

“Hold, Demon! In the name of God I command you.”

This, at least, got its attention. A noise that might have been laughter escaped from its red-rimmed mouth. Rows of needle-sharp gleamed in an inhuman grin. Its bravado slipped a bit when it caught sight of the sword hilt over my left shoulder. “Captain Jennings,” it hissed. “I’ve been hoping to meet you.”

“I guess this is your lucky day then, fiend. Unfortunately for you, it will be your last.” I reached up and grasped the hilt in my right hand.

The demon looked amused. “Come now, Captain. Or do you prefer Reverend? I have no quarrel with you. Leave me to my amusement, and I will let you live.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. My oath compels me.”

“Ah yes, your famous vow. What makes you think your god cares, if he even exists? He has done nothing to stop us.”

I pulled the sword from its scabbard. “Hasn’t he?”

“But you hate violence, remember? Isn’t that why you became a chaplain, instead of picking up a gun and fighting like a man? While your brothers in arms bled and died, you hid behind a religion you didn’t even believe.”

How could it know? With some effort, I fought down my shame and guilt. “The past is irrelevant. All that matters now is this sword and my promise to God.”

“Surely you don’t think you and your toy are a match for me? I’ve killed dozens of real men recently, all armed with much more formidable weapons. They screamed like little girls while I gutted them. Why don’t you just go out the way you came in and save yourself from their fate.”

I tried to blot out the unbidden images from my mind, but scenes of merciless brutality flooded in. In the past year I had seen too many examples of what these creatures could do. It was as if they fed on human pain and suffering; the greater the horror, the greater the pleasure for them. Anguish was their sustenance.

In the year since their arrival, they had tortured and killed hundreds of thousands. No one could discern their purpose. Was it a simple predator-prey relationship? Were they an advance force sent to systematically eliminate humankind? My hypothesis was no less plausible, and personal experience seemed to confirm it.

“When you get back to Hades, tell Satan who sent you.” I dropped into a cat stance, praying in earnest that the sword I held above my head could again do what bombs and bullets had been unable to.

“Don’t forget to lock up when you’re done,” the chaplain said, as he shouldered his messenger bag and reached for the side door leading to the alley beside the small church. John gave him a brusque nod before turning back to one of the statues. It was one of the saints - he wasn’t sure which one, but it wore an earnest look that he supposed was intended to appear reverent. The door closed with a quiet click, and the young man found himself alone, surrounded by depictions of the devout and the Deity Himself.

It was a small, non-denominational church, so he couldn’t help but wonder at the wide variety of statues that lined small alcoves along the length of the sanctuary. Some looked like they’d been purchased at the estate sale of an eccentric Catholic, while others seemed, well, lurid, somehow, as if they’d come from a boudoir. For example, there was the pair of nudes that seemed engaged in a sort of lover’s quarrel. Despite being raised by two missionaries, he simply could not recall the parable they were supposed to represent. The female had a mixture of anticipation and challenge on her face, while the male looked absolutely enraged.

John had been recently hired, in part, to remove the tarnish from the collection, and he’d been saving this pair for last. Something about them bothered him, and not just their inappropriateness. Directly across from them was a window, framed by the waving branches of a tree, and the shadows from outside danced across them in such a way that they almost appeared to be breathing.

He shuddered, and turned back to the statue he was working on - an angel that seemed to be holding one hand up in warning. He systematically cleaned every crevice in the wings and in the upraised hand, and then faced the pair he was avoiding once more. With a sigh he lifted his bucket and approached them cautiously, as if he expected them to whirl upon him. After a moment’s hesitation, he began with the female, blushing slightly as he ran his rag over her most intimate curves. He had just reached her hip when he glanced back up at her face, and almost dropped his rag. Perhaps it was the light, but for a moment he thought he saw her gaze shift towards him, the barest hint of a suggestive smile playing across her lips. His laugh broke the silence in the sanctuary when he realized how silly, and even obscene, his thoughts were becoming. After all, she was cold hardened bronze. He reached toward her with his rag once more, and was interrupted by a clink of metal against the marble floor behind him. He turned, and screamed.

***

Outside in the alley, the chaplain shed his disguise and waited patiently. So many fools took the job, he thought. So many fools were drawn to the woman. He chuckled at the sound of the scream, and the confirmation that he would feed tonight.

Father John walked the empty halls of Kings Court. As Prelate of the Kings Order, it was his job to make sure that preparations for Black Moon were in place. The main doors had been thrown open and braziers had been lit in anticipation of the revelers that would be visiting that night. Their flickering lights and oily smoke cast the building in a bloody light. Father John remembered as a young chaplain preaching against the evils of Black Moon, but public opinion had won out over the years and people began again to celebrate the longest night of the year.

Few people remembered the origins of Black Moon. The coming of Death, the night that did not end. People now spoke of the turning of Winter and new life soon to spring from the frozen ground. Father John walked systematically through the halls, checking that no one had added garlands of ivy to the mirrors, or images of wolves heads above the doors, another pagan Black Moon tradition Father John would continue to stamp out.

Before the introduction of the One Faith it had been believed that Black Moon was a night of last chances, a night when death would whisper in your ear that if you did not change he would return a year later to collect his dues. Tales were told, even recently, of people who had received a warning of one kind or another and died the following year near Black Moon. Warnings had allegedly come in the form of dreams, or gifts left behind for an unwary soul. Birds flew into a house ahead of someone, or a lone wolf cry was heard by no one but the recipient of the warning. These tales always seemed to rise in the weeks following a Black Moon death, though in all his years Father John had not heard of someone receiving such a warning and avoiding the call of death the following year.

He thought back to last years celebrations as muffled footsteps echoed down the long empty corridors. It would be an hour or more yet before the sun settled dark over the horizon and celebrants came to share a drink and exchange gifts. Even the giving of gifts came from a tradition of trying to confuse Death by spending as little of Black Moon at home as possible.

It was not much later then it was now, preparations still underway for the expected visitors. Father John had just walked past a dark corridor when he had jumped at the sound of metal striking rock. The echoes still rang as he turned to see a quarrel clattering on the floor. He had not heard the slap of a crossbow being released and dashed back to look down the corridor. He was sure that some young trouble maker had decided to play a, potentially harmful, Black Moon prank on the Prelate. He had grabbed the bolt and stalked off in earnest down the corridor looking for the prankster. As quickly as he moved though, he caught no sign of any others walking the barren, blood-lit halls.

Father John thought of that quarrel, still lying above the mantle in his room. It acted as a daily reminder of the vigilance he needed to maintain in his fight against the remnants of Pagan beliefs.

Outside Father John heard the church bells ringing out the hour. A wind stirred and flames fluttered. For some reason the ringing bells sounded to the Father like the final toll before a family lowered a body into the grave.

“Father, I must confess.” The wind in the corridors seemed to be whispering. Father John looked around for reassurance, but no one was there. Behind him the flames trembled in the breeze. “I am owed a debt, and it is time to collect.”

Detectives Hunt and Peck were sitting at their desks. The Captain entered the room and told them to cancel any plans they might have. “We have a body” he said. “They think it’s the chaplain of the college chapel. At least that’s where the body is. Doc Brown is the one that called us. The dean knows he is our coroner and CSI expert, and since he only lives a block off campus, tried him first. Good thinking on his part, if you ask me. Anyway, campus cops have the area sealed off and the dean has the people that found the body in his office. Get out there and find out what’s going on. Maybe this is related to those missing person reports we recently received from there.”

When they arrived at the chapel, Doc Brown was waiting. The campus police had done their job in earnest. Crime scene tape was up and onlookers were being kept a fair distance away. The doctor told them to be prepared for a shock, and led them into the chapel. Looking down the main aisle, they could see that the doctor had already systematically done his CSI duties. Little cards were placed where he had taken pictures of possible evidence. The body could be seen just below the altar. The shocking part came when he pointed at the font just off the entrance. Resting there in the holy water was the charred remains of a head. In anticipation of the detectives probable next question, the doctor informed them that “Yep the body up there is missing his.”

When they got to the body, they saw that there was no blood. The doctor explained that whatever instrument had done the beheading, had been hot enough to cauterize the wound at the same time. “In fact” said the doc, “this looks like a flame thrower had been used.” The pattern on the neck was unusual to say the least. It looked like his head might have been bitten off. Of course that was an unrealistic idea. He said he would make a casting back at the lab. With luck they would find something that matched. What he couldn’t figure, was why the body was at one end of the church, and the head at the other. “What if that head doesn’t even belong to this body?” No one laughed.

Hunt decided to go to the dean’s office to question those who had found the body. He told the doctor to finish up and get everything back to the lab. Peck would stay in the chapel. When he stepped out, news vehicles were already there. Reporters were shouting out, wanting to know if something had broken regarding all the missing person reports. Not wanting to quarrel with the media, he gave the standard “no comment” and went about his work.

When Hunt returned to the chapel, he could hear Peck talking to the Captain on his cell phone. He was walking down the aisle when he heard Peck finish his phone call, and said in jest “maybe it was a demon, and the college kids were good eating, but it couldn’t stomach a holy man, ha, ha.” When he didn’t hear Peck laugh, he turned around just in time to see gravity catch up with Peck’s torso, and watch it fall. It was missing it’s head! Hunt looked up, and that was his last sane moment of life on this earth. It took six campus cops to finally stop the running, screaming Hunt, who was ripping out his own eyes.

Hunt is spending his remaining days in a nice rubber room in an institution. The chapel case is still open.

Recently the Department of Justice began to allow certain tightly screened inmates to help in the road clean up after avalanches in the British Columbia interior. The earnest hope was that the hard, work and fresh air would aid in their rehabilitation.

So it was that Trevor, who had been a prison chaplain until he was caught bringing in “favours” for prisoners, found himself riding a school bus on the long winding road up to the most recent slide across the Trans Canada. He sat in his bright orange jumpsuit, coat, gloves and toque, holding a shovel. A couple of times he thought he saw a black shape slide through the shadows of the spruce that were the only colour in the white landscape.

They arrived at the site of the road blockage. The guards, distinguished by the fact they wore blue and held guns instead of shovels warned the crew against any loud noises which might set off another avalanche. The convicts shuffled out of the bus and began attacking the rock hard wall of ice and snow that covered the road.

They were silent more from exhaustion than obedience. In this high altitude it was mind numbing work. Trevor had no quarrel with the guards. It didn’t take long for him to warmer than they were. They worked all morning and were very slowly making a dent in the snow, ice and broken trees that made up the slide. At lunch they climbed back on the bus and lunch was handed out.

One of the convicts was missing. Trevor watched as two of the guards climbed back out of the bus and systematically walked back and forth across the face of the snow slide. One of them apparently found something because he turned to shout at his partner. Just at that moment a lean black shape jumped out the woods and ripped the guard’s throat out. Bright red blood sprayed across the snow. The blue shape of the guard was dragged under the trees as the other guard poked at the snow at the other side of the road oblivious to his companion’s fate.

Trevor opened the window to shout a warning, but too late. The second guard disappeared in a shower of red as something tore him in half. The last man in blue jumped out of the bus with his gun drawn. A wave of orange followed him holding shovels at the ready. They formed a rough circle and stared into the black shadows under the spruce. Though the sun was blindingly bright on the snow, they could see nothing under the trees. Trevor started to shiver.

A ring of black creatures slunk out of the trees. They didn’t look like anything that Trevor had ever imagined. They did look hungry. Without a sound they lunged at the work detail. The guard beside Trevor tried to bring the gun to bear, but his arm was torn off as he pulled the trigger. Trevor buried his shovel in the creature’s back. The creatures tore the men to pieces.

There was more red than white now as the screams of dying men were drowned out by the deep rumble of another avalanche. Trevor ran back to the bus just as a wall of white swept him off the edge of the world. Trevor offered a brief prayer of thanks as he came to partly buried in snow as hard as concrete – at least he was alive.

Then he saw the black creature in front of him licking its lips in anticipation.

Frederick closed the door behind his friend the chaplain as he was leaving. It least the chaplain WAS his friend before the quarrel .

What they had been arguing over was an ancient manuscript Frederick had recently unearthed in his archaeological diggings. From what little he could read, the manuscript described a process to summon the dead from beyond the grave. He had asked the chaplain over to examine it.

The chaplain did so, turned white as a sheet, and began to shake uncontrollably. “Frederic, I implore you in earnest , destroy this thing immediately.”

“From what I can tell, it has a spell that allows a demon,” Frederick said.

“It does. There are some things man was never meant to know, and the records destroyed or hidden by the angels. This is one of them, I don’t know it escaped their wrath, but you must destroy it yourself. Dabbling with it is not possible, you have not the knowledge of its power, and it will end up costing you your soul, and quite possibly, and good number of other people’s souls as well. Destroy it now!”

“Give me a reason. All I am hearing is religious mumbo-jumbo,” Frederick retorted.

“Proof? You want proof from me? Look at that document. Really look at it. Where did it come from? Who would have penned it? What was there motive? The fact is someone wrote down how to summon a demon. Ask yourself why? Frederick, that manuscript MUST be destroyed.”

“We are going to have to agree to disagree on that.”

“Then I leave you to your doom,” the chaplain said, ending the discussion.

Frederick looked at the manuscript with renewed anticipation . If it affected the chaplain that way, it must be powerful.

He systematically prepared the room for his visitor - black candles, drapes to shield out the sun, and the all-important pentagram on the floor. He then placed a personal item in the center of the pentagram, and said the incantation.

A small, green being appeared. It did not seem the least bit dangerous, and was sort of a letdown from what Frederick had led himself to expect. “What are you anyway?” he asked.

“Me? I am luck”, the little green being said. “I can cause everything to go your way - money, power, anything for which you need to be in the right place at the right time.”

“And all I have to do is let you out of the pentagram I suppose?” Frederick said, looking for the catch.

“This thing? It doesn’t hold me.” said luck, stepping out of the pentagram. “You just have to invite me in.”

Frederick considered, then agreed. Luck joined with him. The day started out with him finding a wallet full of money, and no ID. The events of rest of the day were similar. He came home that night a multi-millionaire.

He went to sleep with visions of tomorrow, but no real purpose. As ‘luck’ would have it, he muttered the incantation three more times in his sleep. Avarice, fear, and persuasion appeared.

Frederick woke up in the morning to find the three new visitors. “What are they?” he said suspiciously.

“Together, they are power. You have a lot of money, but no idea of what to do about it. These folks can help you out in that department. Same deal as before, you have to invite them in.”

And so began the reign of Frederick the Terrible, a man responsible for the deaths of 15 million, who was finally destroyed by an unknown chaplain.