Read The Devil Will Come Online
Authors: Justin Gustainis
The Devil Will Come
The Devil Will Come
A Modern Collection of Devilish Fiction by
Justin Gustainis
Copyright © 2016 by Justin Gustainis
E-Book Edition
Published by
EDGE Science Fiction and
Fantasy Publishing
An Imprint of
HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.
CALGARY
Notice
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This book is also available in print
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Contents
* * * * *
For Jeanne Cavelos, Evil Susan, and the rest of the gang at
the Odyssey Writing Workshop, Class of 2008
“Sleep is for wimps.”
* * * * *
Introduction
You may or may not believe in the old gentleman known variously as Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, Satan, or simply the devil— but it is impossible to deny the existence of evil in the world. And all those arguments about whether evil originates in the fires of Hades or in the smoldering heart of humankind don’t change the fact that evil has always been with us— and, most likely, always will be.
Sorry if that’s a buzz kill.
The stories you are about to read are about evil, in one form or another. Several of them give evil a supernatural origin, but others place it squarely in the lap of ordinary (or maybe not so ordinary) human beings. Some of the people you are about to meet will overcome the evil that confronts them, while others won’t be quite so fortunate. Either way, all of them are going to be changed by the encounter.
I hope you will be, too— if only in a small way.
These stories are best read late at night, preferably while you’re alone in the house. I recommend leaving only a single light on. Try to use a reading lamp that illuminates the page while throwing the rest of the room into shadows— shadows where anything might be hiding.
Anything.
Later, as you lie in the iron dark, waiting for sleep, perhaps you’ll start to wonder if there really is a Devil, and if this is the night he might choose to come— for you.
I wish you pleasant dreams.
Well, no— not really.
—J.G.
N.B.: Two of the stories in this collection are somewhat whimsical in tone. I was asked twice to write for websites a story placing some of my characters in a fairy tale universe. The results were “A Good Egg” and “Huff/Puff.” None of the other stories you will find here would ever be described as whimsical— not even a little bit.
* * * * *
“The Devil will come,
and Faustus must be damned.”
—Christopher Marlowe
* * *
“People who cease to believe
in God, or in goodness altogether,
still believe in the devil.”
—Anne Rice
* * *
“The greatest trick the devil ever
pulled was convincing the world
that he didn’t exist.”
—Roger “Verbal” Kint
* * * * *
Until I Come Again
All the whores were frightened— and who could blame them, with doom stalking the avenues and lurking down every fog-shrouded alleyway?
But skittish or not, they still went out to ply their trade. After news of the latest depredation, some might stay inside for a night or two, cowering like rabbits in their holes. But eventually, they would venture forth again. They had needs, after all— whether for drink, or drugs, or feeding hungry children or simply putting bread on their own tables in a world where a poor woman’s choices were often reduced to either the scullery or the street, and maid work being damned hard to come by.
Sooner or later, the whores always came back.
Robert counted on that— had done so from the very beginning.
He stood in the shadowed doorway of the closed apothecary shop for a long time, watching the street. Midnight came and went, then one o’clock, but the area remained abustle with drunken sailors, slumming toffs, pickpockets, beggars— and whores.
Finally, he spied one who interested him. Tall, she was, with reddish hair reaching nearly to her waist. He studied her for several minutes, then made up his mind. Waiting until she was facing the other way, he stepped from the dark doorway and headed toward her, assuming the pace and posture of a tired man on his way home. Not too fast, not too slow, that was the ticket.
As he drew near the whore, he let his eyes dart her way for a moment then looked to the front again. He slowed his walk, but only a little. A direct approach had been effective with the first few, but now the strumpets were wary. Let her come to him.
And that she did. Stepping forward a little she said, “‘Allo, darlin’. Interested in a bit of fun this evenin’ are we? Only twenty shillings.”
He stopped and turned to face her. “Well, I don’t know— I mean, I was just going home, er, Miss.” He strove to convey shyness, unease, and more than a hint of lust. It was a subtle performance, and the great actor Henry Irving could hardly have done it better.
“Home, is it?” she said with a toss of her head. “Then why not kiss the missus with a smile on yer face? I knows
all
the tricks, luv, you’ll see.” There was something in her voice and manner that spoke to him of Ireland.
“Well, um, yes, all right,” he said, with just the right combination of eagerness and embarrassment. “Is there somewhere we might—?”
“Oh, ta, I got a room, a nice one. Not far from ‘ere.” She stepped up to him boldly and took his arm, just as if she were a decent woman. “Shall we be off, then?”
They went together, and if she noticed the valise he carried in his other hand, she made no mention of it.
“What’s yer name, luv?” she asked, sounding as if she were actually interested.
For a moment he was tempted to say “Jack,” just to see what she would do, but squashed the impulse. This was not an occasion for levity. “Robert,” he told her. “And what might yours be, my dear?”
“Oh, you just call me Mary,” she said, laughing lightly. “All the lads do.”
* * *
Her wretched little room actually
was
close by, in a short byway called Miller’s Court. He stayed there with her for a little more than an hour. His work did not usually take him so long, but the unaccustomed privacy prompted him to linger, to do a really thorough job, his best so far. Most of Robert’s cleansings had taken place in semi-public areas, alleys and courtyards, with the danger of discovery always prompting him to haste. But not tonight.
Finally, he was finished, cleaned up, and ready to face the world again. Before venturing into the street, he made a quick mental inventory. After a moment he nodded to himself. Everything he had brought into the room with him was back in his valise. Plus one additional item— a little souvenir of the occasion.
He blew out the single lamp before opening the door, so that no one passing would catch a glimpse of the bloody ruin he was leaving behind. But Miller’s Court appeared deserted at this late hour.
As Robert pulled the pocked and warped door shut behind him, he noticed the building number for the first time: 13. His mouth twitched in something like a grin.
An unlucky number, people say. Well, sometimes people have it right, don’t they?
He took in a breath of the cool night air and started on his way home.
The stupid police could search in vain for their “clews,” and be damned. They would never catch him. Not the peelers, or the Baker Street Wonder, either— yes, the papers said
he’d
been consulted, bad cess to him. And certainly Robert had nothing to fear from that drug fiend Inspector from the Yard, the one they said had actually been having
visions
of the killings. Visions, indeed!
They could not stop him, and the work would go on, until he had cleansed Whitechapel, then all of Spitalfields, then the whole of East London of these filthy trollops. They were all of a stripe, just like the slut who had given the pox so many years ago to his father, who had then unknowingly passed it on to Mother. Father had slowly gone mad from the disease, screaming denunciations of the dirty whores to the very end.
Mother had been unwilling to face such a fate for herself. Father had been in his grave less than a month when Robert found her in bed, pale and cold, the empty bottle of laudanum beside her. The note she left for him said only “Forgive me.” And of course he would, how could he do otherwise, but not the whores, oh no,
they
were responsible,
they
had destroyed his family, his life, forced him to be raised and used and abused by his hateful uncle and aunt, and he would go on making
them
pay, the filthy sluts, until—
His head came up suddenly, eyes narrowed to slits. He felt his heart began to pound, faster than it ever had while he’d been dissecting the whore’s body.
There was someone standing in the road.
* * *
He was a tall man, and strongly built, by the look of him. He wore clothing so dark that it looked black in the uncertain light of the street lamps.
A bobby? No, he wore a gentleman’s top hat, not the helmet of the Metropolitan Police. Scotland Yard? A detective? But they never worked alone, surely. Robert thought of turning around, walking off the other way, but they would only draw attention. So he continued straight on, just another professional man on the way home after working late.
As Robert drew closer, he saw that the man was older than he’d seemed at first. The hair was white, as was the great mustache that curved down and around the mouth.
But his eyes, there was something about his eyes beneath those massive brows, the way they seemed to catch the lamplight and hold it with a glow of their own.
Robert thought about the razor-sharp implements in his valise, wondered how quickly he could produce one if he needed it.
“Good evening, my young friend,” the man said. His deep voice was accented, the intonation strange and unfamiliar.
“Good evening.” Robert nodded, curt but polite, and kept walking.
But the stranger held up a languid hand, palm outward. “A moment, if I may delay you.”
Robert found that he had stopped, without consciously deciding to do so. “The hour is late, sir, and I am weary. What do you want with me?”
“Only to express to you my… admiration.”
Robert blinked. “Admiration? I fear you have mistaken me for someone else. You do not know me, sir, nor any
admirable
deed that I might have accomplished.” His right index finger went slowly to the latch of his valise, ready to flick it open.
The stranger smiled, but without humor. His teeth were very white, and sharp-looking. “I do not make mistakes. I know your name— and also that
other
name, by which you are so well known to the common people. I have read of it in your newspapers— indeed, they write of little else, these days.”
Robert tried to sound impatient. “I repeat, sir, you have mistaken me for another. I have not the slightest notion to what you are referring.” He thought the big autopsy scalpel was near the top of the valise’s contents and could be reached quickly. He would have to use it left-handed, which would be awkward. And he had never killed a man before, let alone a gentleman like this stranger seemed to be. But if his freedom was at risk, there was no other option.
The old man seemed almost to read his mind. “Fear not, my friend. I am not some common policeman. I am not even English— but you discerned this at once, by my speech. Did you not?”
“Well, I had noticed something of an accent, it’s true.” For quicker access, he lifted his right hand, the one holding the valise, just a little. The sequence was clearly laid out in his mind now. Flick the clasp open, reach across with his left hand, grasp the big scalpel, then slash a vicious backhand from right to left, disemboweling the man and leaving him open to the killing stroke across the throat.
All right, then. Ready, steady….
“You may put down your case.” The stranger’s voice seemed to reverberate within Robert’s brain like an echo, and the eyes, the red-rimmed eyes, were impossible to resist. “You will not require a weapon now.”
Robert’s hand opened, seemingly of its own volition. The battered leather valise dropped to the cobblestones, its contents clanging faintly.
“It is true that my speech is of one not native to your country,” the man said, as if he had not interrupted himself. “But that will change. Nay, it
must
change before I make this land my home.”
“Home? Here?” Robert spoke as if from a dream.
“Such is my intent, yes. My own land has grown stagnant, its people pale and listless. But even from many miles away have I read of the crowded streets of your mighty London. And now I have seen for myself that all those accounts were true. The heart of this great city beats strongly, full of activity, of vitality, of… blood.”
He stepped closer, and now Robert could see how extraordinarily pale he was, except for those incredibly red lips, and the eyes, the eyes….
“I was myself once a soldier, nay, more— I commanded armies,” he went on. “Well do I know the value of what you English call
reconnaissance.
And in this brief visit I have learned much. Now I return to my own country for a time, to make my preparations. And then in a year, two at most, all will be in readiness, and I shall return.”
He placed his hands atop Robert’s shoulders. The fingers gripped like the teeth of a steel trap, but the voice was soft, almost purring, and utterly compelling. “But even when I have established myself in England, I will still require assistance of one who has knowledge of the local laws and customs, and who can move about freely, in both day and night,” he said. “I had despaired of locating a man who was suitable to my needs— but now, at long last, I have found you.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Rare it is, to encounter someone who is not …
vlkoslak
… but yet understands the vital importance of blood, who revels in the blood of others, who knows deep in his heart that
the blood is the life
.”
The red eyes bore into Robert, and his sanity, what was left of it after years of abuse and four murders, began to crumble and fragment under the terrible onslaught of the old man’s will. “The blood is the life,” Robert repeated softly. “The blood is the life!”
“Ah, you
do
understand!” The stranger nodded again. “It is well. You will wait for me, then. Here, in London. And when I return, you will be my right hand, my good and faithful servant, and I will be your
boyar
, your Lord, as is only right and proper for one of my noble blood. I will summon you again upon my arrival. In the interval, you will slay no more harlots, lest you be apprehended by the authorities and hence become useless to me. Do you understand? No more ‘cleansings’— for now.”
“Yes, my Lord!” Robert said, nodding wildly.
“And if you serve me well, I will repay your loyalty with the greatest gift of all. Do you know what that is?”
“No, my Lord. Please, will you tell me?”
“The answer is in your own Scripture, Mister Renfield.” The man tapped his own chest with a sharp-nailed finger. “You must have faith when I say to you that
I
am the resurrection and the life, and he that believeth in
me
, even though he die, yet shall he live.” The stranger gave vent to a singularly humorless laugh that seemed to echo throughout the empty, squalid street before it finally died away.
“The blood is the life,” Robert said eagerly. “The blood is the life!”
“Indeed, it is so.” The stranger let go of Robert’s shoulders and stepped back. After a moment the man’s body seemed to grow indistinct, as if he were somehow becoming one with the fog that swirled around them. But his voice was still clear as he said, “Remember, Englishmen: no matter of how long it may be, you will wait— as your Scripture also puts it,
until I come again.
”
And then he was gone.
Robert stared into the mist for what seemed like a long time. A thread of spittle ran down one corner of his mouth, but he made no effort to wipe it away. After a while, he picked up his satchel, which contained the set of operating knives, some bloodstained rags, a nearly-empty bottle of distilled water, and, wrapped in waxed paper, the heart of a prostitute named Mary Kelly.
Robert Renfield settled his coat around his shoulders and staggered off into the night, his brain afire from the Glory that had been revealed to him. He would wait quietly, as instructed. He would be a loyal servant, and would earn the reward that his Lord and Master had promised him.
As he walked the dark streets, he muttered to himself, as lunatics often do. “The blood is the life,” he said, over and over. “The blood is the life.”
A bat flew overhead, casting an immense shadow over London as it passed before the full moon. But Robert Renfield did not notice. If he had, it is doubtful that he would have cared.
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