The Seventh Son of The Seventh Son
Early Winter 1983
Amanda Jenson had walked out of the front door of the Fitness Plus Tennis Club alone. A little late for the typical person but not Amanda she was right on her newly adjusted schedule. Bundled warm fitted with a thick white winter trench and matching ear muffs. She walked hands folded defensively below her bosoms. Her black gloves hid underneath each elbow.
She was close to getting her bachelors on science and arts, one semester shy. She was a tall slender brunette with beautiful hazel eyes and well-crafted cheekbones. Although being a model was something she had accomplished in her past she was ready to move forward with her life.
Deciding to walk home from after tennis practice was actually her boyfriend, Ben’s suggestion to her, to make-up for her lost time on the tread mill because of her recent scheduling crisis, mixing in her work with play and pleasure. She didn’t mind though, it was a good quick stroll home, less than a quarter mile and just two blocks give or take, past the mall parkway. And the fact that she had shed about four pounds in the last week alone had her confidence boosting with glee.
As she passed the local fast food joint on the corner she turned down a narrow darkened alleyway. It was in this area she had apprehension because of the lack of lighting but with the soft white blanket of snow on the ground and the strong moonlight, at least for tonight, gave her some natural lighting to lead the way.
As she approached the a third of the way through the alleyway she heard a sudden rustle behind her. As she turned around she saw a tall dark figure with gleaming green eyes, less than a foot away from her, staring firmly into hers. Amanda bellowed a loud glass shattering scream which echoed into the night. Its razor-sharp yellow teeth reflected the moonlight above, black tight lips adorned with an evil smile; its head tilted cripplingly fast to the side. Now just a few more steps away from getting through the never-ending alleyway with her blistering speed, even through the slippery snow, she heard a ghoulish disquieting cackle…Directly behind her. She froze. Boiling breath and sizzling drool dripped along her right shoulder. She could feel it even through her thick coat...
8:15 A.M. The next morning to the dot, Jim Pearson rode on the back of his garbage truck that his work partner Fred was driving, picking up trash, just like routine, every Tuesday. Jim had told his wife he loved her, they had enjoyed passionate sex the night before. She was sleeping when he slammed the snooze button for the third and final time before getting up at 4:00 AM. He rubbed her shoulders and bent down and kissed the nape of her neck and told her he loved her. Her recourse was reaching her hand behind her stroking his fingers softly. “Have a good day my love.” Is what she whispered.
Jim pulled up to 4413 Maple a nice house, privately fenced in yard that led up to a small empty parking spot. Jim an eleven year veteran now, a big, quite, brute fellow, having packed on a large amount of muscle in those eleven years as well as plenty of Football beers that formed a keg's worth of beer-belly for him to place his plate of food on when the TV trays were being used. He tried to lift one of the trash cans when he had noticed its uneven weight. He opened the can and instantly dropped to his knees screaming and began vomiting all over his knees and atop the snow.
“Oh my,” He cried out. “Someone…. please God!”
That had been Diem's second kill, back then, eight years apart from his first. He was at his peak with his abilities and doing it for nothing more than sport. Not in human form, but his cursed demon that lie with-in him. Having crossed over to earth nearly three decade now, he was becoming more human, more compassionate towards human life. He was beginning to fail as a guardian of The Lark and he knew it. And so did his possessing demon with-in him.
It wasn't the thought of his second kill that caused him to hold his attack on Thomas, but a vision of something else. He could see that one of his personal possession’s had become tampered with and removed from its original origin. Something he had left behind at the dead priest's house many years back. Not by accident. It very well may have been yet another one of his failures.
He released the cock of the hammer and placed the gun inside his blazer jacket. A thunderous crackle submerged his eardrums and a shooting pain was felt through his lower neck and collarbone area. Thomas had shot him. High on meth Tom was still able to distinguish the hideous intruder. Marshalltow grabbed his neck wound as blood spewed in-between his fingers profusely spraying on the walls and pouring to the floor.
As he turned and stumbled from the room, aside Thomas' bed a shadowy figure manifested itself, it was Diem’s true image. It appeared, hovering beside the sick man’s bed, attired in a black cloak. Its face, tarnished and abhorrent, holding a long sharp cultivator, the being evil and disgusting with hate, in a blink of an eye and without words, hooked Thomas' face like a fish with his weapon and stole him out through the window into the night vanishing into the darkness...
By Michael Mowder, Jr. 2000-2001
MORE TO COME...