The Unseen

Read Part One here

Read Part Two here

“You can’t fight what you can’t see or hear.” – Marion Strickler

“For good to have any chance, there needs to be something pure.” – William Rayne

“Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.” – Matthew 7:15 (KJV)

YOU MUST USE YOUR FIVE SENSES
PLUS A SIXTH EMPLOYED
IF YOU ARE TO KNOW THOSE
WHO DWELL IN THE VOID

Let me be clear. I am no witch. Nor have I ever meant my town any harm, by a curse or otherwise.

I watched over the preparations of my people as they canned and preserved their supplies last year, during a bumper crop. I heard their consternation and distress this spring, when my nurse Nadine foretold disaster. I smelled the rank odor of dying livestock and the acrid stench of burnt crops this summer. I touched the forehead of an infant whose mother was struggling to nurse. And on Halloween, I tasted death. All of these things were possible through my many benefactors.

In rumors, they have several names: aliens, shadows, ghosts, monsters, entities. Yet we Unvoiced, of which I am the first, know them by their true name and nature: void-dwellers.

After a long life full of joy and tribulation, I, Grandmother Anne, have become one of them.

We are beings of pure Spirit. Though we lack physical bodies, this allows us to travel between galaxies extremely fast. We scour the vast realms of space searching for others to know and to guide. When we found the Milky Way and Earth, we found kindred spirits in you humans. We admired your keen intelligence and striving to improve yourselves, no matter your circumstances. We wish to help you grow and achieve your maximum potential in this life and the next. I call us not only void-dwellers but Absolvers, for we seek to forgive you of your sins and mistakes.

On the other hand, Preacher Jones sees nothing good in you. He sees you use your intelligence to lie to and manipulate your fellow human beings. He sees you striving for the survival of the fittest, in endless competition and even war. He sees all your desires and turns them to greed, exploitation, and acquisition at one another’s expense. He is Satan, known anciently as the Accuser, and he wishes to see nothing more than your complete destruction, one town at a time.

Certainly, you’ve fought wars, endured disease and starvation, and ground one another down in the name of material profit. Yet through it all, you’ve endured. Our mission is to help you do so. That is why I founded this community after the void-dwellers, the Unseen, came to me in dreams.

We originate in a distant galaxy in the constellation Libra, known as NGC 5861, roughly 85 million light-years away from Earth. In 1971 and 2017, it experienced supernovae, sending more of us into the outer reaches of the cosmos. It propelled our evolution, certainly, and also our power.

I had hoped that through our influence, our community would grow and thrive enough to have its residents in direct contact with us. This did happen, to one in four people. The Unvoiced have been faithful and kind, receiving great temporal and spiritual bounties as a reward. As for the so-called Talkies, most of them have now fallen under the terrible yoke of a different being. He seeks to control rather than cooperate, and then consume.

Yes, I’ve known who Preacher Jones is from the start. He and I almost founded this town together.

Why haven’t my fellow void-dwellers and I exposed and defeated him by now? It’s a matter of strength, numbers, and free will. Though we’re strong enough to traverse all of space, we’re too weak to manifest ourselves in human form like Jones. The most we can do, besides appearing in dreams, is to communicate through a medium: that is, the severed vocal cords of the Unvoiced, who choose to sacrifice their ability to talk so that we can speak through them.

As for our numbers, we are many, but we travel alone. There is great risk in coming to a planet in droves. If we are exposed, we flee back into the void from whence we came. Only once in our history have we fought to escape a world, and the results were catastrophic for the original inhabitants. Countless bodies and spirits were sundered from each other, and the cost was an entire civilization. Never again, we vowed, would we resort to war, even to ensure our survival.

The third fulcrum upon which our power hinges is free will. Among all the beings in all the galaxies in all the Universe, you humans alone have the full power of free choice. You may have felt the pull of gods and demons, leaders and rulers, cultures and circumstances, but through it all, you could decide for yourselves what to do. By this we are bound, and this we consider sacred. We Absolvers limit ourselves to guidance and mentorship, not possession. That’s what Jones wants. We want to stop him, but his followers have waxed extremely strong.

Yes, the Talkies are under a spell. That, coupled with chronic hunger and desperation, is what drove them to kill me and my nurse Nadine. My “curse,” according to Jones, is witchcraft, but it’s really my guidance and that of my people. Once all the Unvoiced are dead, there will be no one left who can stop the Preacher. If he is allowed to reign in even one town, his power will spread to every corner of the earth like a cancer and engulf it. He’ll turn every human settlement into a farm. We Absolvers will do all we can to prevent this from happening, except mind control.

Other than speaking through the Unvoiced, as shadow beings, we can also ride as passengers in human bodies if we so choose. I can’t do this with Preacher Jones. He’s much too potent, in any form he takes, and as slippery as a catfish. A bottom-feeder, too. He’s highly resistant to telepathy and mental prodding. Maybe it takes all Jones has for him to resist our call.

What I can do is select someone, someone close to Jones, to “ride along” with. Only in the most dire straits would we Absolvers resort to this, but now’s the time. I need someone malleable in the spiritual sense. Someone with an overdeveloped ego and an underdeveloped conscience. Someone who’d do anything for their current leader before jumping ship like a rat.

In Horace “Hank” McClatchey, I sense a perfect candidate.

He’s not unintelligent – he’s clever enough to have been a cop – but he is a fool. He’s fallen for Preacher Jones’s lies hook, line, and sinker. He’ll never suspect I’m with him. Inside him. Waiting for him to make a mistake, which he will. Jones is the one I worry about, but if I have Hank on my side, even unwittingly, I have that much more of a chance to take my real enemy down.

All I have to do is settle within Hank’s skull, right between his eyes. It’s not a comfortable space.

* * *

Ugh. Another day, another dollar, another hanging. Hopefully, this one will be the last. The Tates are scheduled for the noose, or at least the Unvoiced father and eldest daughter are. We’ll hang Mrs. Tate, too, for going along with them, but not her four sons and youngest daughter. They’re all under sixteen. As far as we’ve fallen in the past couple of months, we Talkies don’t kill kids. That’s what separates us from the Unvoiced, who let innocent children die this summer and fall.

I know there’s not much they could have done to save them, but still. It’s a question of priorities.

Mine are crystal clear. I’m to get rid of these last holdouts. Then I’ll be Mayor, and my friend Jacob will be my lieutenant. We’ll rule this town with an iron fist, unlike that fucker Mayor Overstreet and his boyfriend Fred Dingle. The former got what he deserved on Thanksgiving, and man, was he tasty. Fred’s a scrawny little puke, so we wouldn’t have gotten much flesh off his bones.

The first thing I’m going to do when I’m Mayor, besides call another census to see how many folks we have left, is to declare my birthday a town holiday. Feasts galore will be had, all with human meat. I can’t wait. That’s all I’ve been wanting to eat. The rest of us are down to scrounging and wolfing down condiments from the grocery store, at least if we can’t afford auctioned body parts.

I can, and I don’t have to pay for them. That’s one of the privileges of being the town hangman.

Another one is being the first and most important disciple of Preacher Jones, who’s really Satan. Imagine being in the direct presence of, and having direct contact with, the Devil himself. As long as I do what he says, and do it fast and faithfully, he gets me everything I could ever want or need. All except alcohol, which I miss something fierce. That’s part of the deal we made. Even though I chickened out and tried to shoot him not too long ago, I delivered the Tates and Mrs. Keller up to him. That’s been enough for him to forgive me. For now. I still have to prove myself every day.

It’s late morning at our county jail. Time to get these stragglers to the platform. It’s hanging time.

Argh! Why do I have a splitting headache all of a sudden? It hurts like the fires of hell.

“Don’t pretend you know anything about that, Mr. McClatchey, although you might. Very soon.”

Damn. It’s Preacher Jones again. What’s he pissed off about now?

“I regret to inform you that there’s been a change in plans. We won’t be hanging anyone today.”

“What? Why not?”

“Come with me.”

What else can I do but follow him to the occupied jail cells? I pinch the bridge of my nose to try to get rid of my headache, but it doesn’t work. In fact, that only makes the problem worse.

“What do you see?” asks my employer.

“The Tates and Mrs. Keller.”

“What about them?”

“Well, they’re clean, unlike when we first got them out of that metal hatch in the woods.”

“What else do you notice?”

For a moment, it’s like I can see through Jones’s soulless eyes. “They’re all skinny as scarecrows.”

“Right you are. This is unacceptable. These are the last of the Unvoiced and their allies, who will be justly executed for the crime of witchcraft. Do you know what else that means?”

“Well, after they’re dead, they’ll be the last four bodies we have to get us through the winter.”

“Yes. We need more. Many more. That’s why we’re going to be fattening them up.”

“To have a feast?”

“Unlike no other. Four people may not last long, or among many other diners, but we’ll do more than make their protein stretch. We’ll make them the centerpieces of a town Christmas banquet.”

My jaw drops. “Christmas? I can’t wait that long!”

“You can and you will. Don’t worry. I can help quell your appetite as well as your thirst.”

A wave of shame washes over me. He knows how bad off I’ve been without booze, but why didn’t he make me such an offer before? I guess I haven’t proven myself worthy. All I can do is beg:

“Please, sir. I’m hungry now, and I’ll be hungry way before Christmas. Can’t I just have one – ”

“Silence. You have food in storage, correct?” I shake my head. “You numbskull. Why don’t you?”

“I don’t have the space at my house. I have a fridge and freezer, but not a deep freezer.”

Preacher Jones blinks. “Very well. I’ll share some of my reserves with you, but don’t waste them.”

“No, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Mr. Tate coughs and signs. Mrs. Tate interprets: “We’re right here, you bastards. Don’t talk about us like we’re invisible. You’re not going to eat us for Christmas or any other holiday. We’ll go on a hunger strike so we don’t get fat. We’d rather be dead than eat our fellow man, and that’s final.”

“Wait a minute,” says one of the Tate sons, but his mom shushes him.

“If you don’t eat,” Jones replies, “then know this: starvation is a long, slow, and painful death. Not only that, but if you don’t eat what we give you, we’ll force-feed you with funnels. You don’t want such a thing, but if push comes to shove…” He walks off, leaving the Tates and Mrs. Keller to think.

I trail behind him like the good dog I am.

“They’ll cave,” I say, trying to improve my boss’s mood. “They’ll have to. Once they find out that not having food after thirty-plus days in that hatch will bring them much closer to death, they’ll choose survival. Everyone does. Besides, Mrs. Keller needs milk for her baby. In order to give it, she needs good nutrition. Don’t you fret about these morons’ appetites. I’ll handle them.”

“You’d better,” says Jones. “Prisoner maintenance is your new job until Christmas. Do it well.”

“Yes, sir.” When his back is turned, I sigh. “Twenty days. I can’t hold out that long. I’ll die.”

“What about us, motherfucker?” shouts another of the Tates’ sons. No one shushes him.

“You’ll live. As long as you eat, you’ll live.” I stretch my lips wide in my first grin in a long time.

It’s going to be a tough slog until December 25. Good thing Jones has my back, and I have his.

* * *

Or so he thinks. That idiot of mine has been quite useful so far, but he has also betrayed me. Tried to shoot me with the very revolver I gifted him. Didn’t he know that ordinary bullets, and even pure silver ones, can’t take down the Devil? Only cold iron will do, and even then, those will only pierce my human form. My bestial form is vulnerable to gold, but who makes bullets out of that? Even if McClatchey figures out the first part, he’ll never deduce the second part.

My other weakness, also undiscovered thus far, is my vulnerability to consumption. That’s one of the reasons why I eat your kind. I do unto others what I’ll never have them do unto me. Human flesh is delicious and nutritious if cooked properly. Especially hearts. I prefer them raw, live, and still beating, but they’re also scrumptious stewed or roasted.

If I didn’t need him, I’d devour Hank McClatchey piece by bloody piece, parceled out on my scale.

As for the others in this town, the Talkies, they’ve gotten nice and plump under my leadership. I told Hank that the Tates and Mrs. Keller are going to be centerpieces for our Christmas feast, but what I didn’t also specify was that any disloyal followers shall be the appetizers and side dishes. How will I know who’s disloyal? They’ll have to prove their fealty and strength in a little endurance challenge I have cooked up for them. If they lose, they themselves will be cooked. Delightful!

Of course, the most delectable part of a human is their soul, not any part of their body. You may ask: How does one eat something intangible? You’ll find that out on Christmas Day. In the meantime, look what I have wrought. Because of the mob I incited and the Talkies I’ve enslaved, we will have the first town to be ruled directly by me on Earth. Once Grandmother Anne is gone, of course. The old witch may be dead, but her spirit is still lurking around somewhere, I guarantee.

As for me? I couldn’t be in a better position. I am the Wicked One. Soon I shall conquer all.

Isn’t it a delicious irony that I’ll do it at a celebration of Christ’s birthday? I can hardly wait.

* * * *

Oh, dear. None of these dark, dreadful things must be allowed to happen. Even though I have forced my way into Hank McClatchey’s body, what else could I have done? Shadow beings can’t pick locks or free prisoners from their cells. If they could have, I would have done so a long time ago. Besides, they would have run into the rest of the Talkies, who would have put them back in jail or hanged them immediately. As long as the Tates and Mrs. Keller are alive, I have a chance.

They might not last until Christmas Day due to their hunger strike. I have to convince them to eat. I’ll speak to them in a dream and remind them that food equals health and strength they can use to escape with their lives when the time is right. Their Unvoiced friends and neighbors will not have died in vain. I’ll tell them I pardon them for doing what they need to do to live. Preacher Jones will not. According to him, cannibalism only proves his point that humans are not only worthless but monstrous. Monsters deserve to be put down, or at least the ones encased in flesh.

This Christmas, I hope to give my final followers two gifts: forgiveness and freedom.

* * * *

Hallelujah! The prisoners have finally decided to chow down. I don’t know what or who changed their minds, but they couldn’t get enough at breakfast, lunch or dinner. Preacher Jones is finally pleased, and I’m happy he’s off my back for once. He’s lived up to his word and offered me some of his best reserve steaks. Biceps for sure, but also a liver and a pair of kidneys. Did you know that, once upon a time, the organs of an animal were called the “umbles?” That’s where we get the phrase “eat humble pie.” Well, guess who’s still eating hearty, like Christmas came early?

I’m trying to avoid the fate of this ancient Greek asshole named Eric – no – Erysichthon. He cut down a sacred tree, and Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, punished him by having the spirit of Famine enter his body. No matter how much he ate, he just got hungrier and hungrier, until he had to sell his daughter as a slave in order to buy more food. The girl begged the gods for help, and Poseidon, the sea god, granted her the ability to shapeshift into any animal. That gave her the know-how to escape captivity and return to her dad so that he could buy even more food. Eventually, though, she got sick of this and fled the slave traders for the final time, only to come back to dear old Pop and find that – get this – he was dead because he had eaten his own body.

Now, I didn’t cut down any sacred trees. I only soiled some when I went to hunt down the Tates in the woods. I haven’t even consumed any sacred cows. Yet I know that Famine gnaws in me, no matter how much meat I eat. I crave more. Always more, like a vampire or a zombie.

What’s happening to me? My headaches are getting worse. Not only that, but I keep smelling something sharp and metallic, like blood. I see the Tates and Mrs. Keller before me, thin as rails yet regaining their appetites faster than a thoroughbred after the Kentucky Derby. My ears ring with the sights and sounds of the county jail, empty except for its protesting prisoners. My taste buds seem to be dying to the flavor of meat and living for something cold and sealed, like a vacuum. I’m filled with the desire to go to the jail and free my most prized possessions, even to the point of giving them my Ford Taurus to escape in. That desire is not my own. I may not be all that smart, but I know damn good and well that the real me doesn’t want to let them loose.

Could Grandmother Anne have cursed us after all? Cursed me with her old brand of sorcery?

What about Preacher Jones? If he did that as well, how can two curses take hold on the same person? As the Bastion Bible version of Matthew 12:26 says, can Satan tell his own demons to flee? If so, his kingdom is divided, and a divided kingdom cannot stand.

Either way, I’m fucked. We’re all fucked if Jones is leading us.

* * * *

Curses! Hank McClatchey is on to me. He’s figured out half of what I’m planning to do. If I were smart, which I have been until now, I’d make him suffer the same fate Erysichthon did. I’d make him start with his pretty little ladyfingers – make him dip them in espresso and liquor, then devour them because, despite quitting at my insistence, he cannot live without alcohol. His delirium tremens and delusions are so bad that he’s beginning to think himself delicious. I can’t afford to lose him yet. He is my disciple, and faithful disciples get rewarded. His reward will be eternity with me, of course, but in the meantime, he deserves a hefty salary as Mayor. I must establish an unbreakable chokehold on this town before I depart for my realm below. I miss it.

My other problem is Grandmother Anne. I know she’s not in Heaven. I would have heard about it. As part of my punishment from the so-called Almighty, I get to learn about every soul that passes through the Pearly Gates instead of me. I haven’t heard her name. Something’s wrong. She’s not in my domain; that’s for certain. When I find her, I shall cast her out and send her back to wherever she came from. Then I and the Talkies who pass my challenge shall rule at long last.

All I have to do is ensnare them with an innocent-sounding trap. A dance contest for the best, strongest, and bravest to enjoy. Except the children. As tender as their flesh is, they don’t deserve to be eaten. They’re the next generation. What revenge could be better than to have them all directly under my leadership?

I’ll make the Talkies whirl and twirl until only nine adults are left. A perfectly-sized town council.

* * * *

Nine adults? NINE? That’s all Jones is planning to spare? Nine adults can run a town, but they can’t populate it. Our community needs fifty to stay strong, and a hundred to stay stronger. He did say that only the best, strongest, and bravest could take part in the contest, but still. Everyone, deep down in their heart of hearts, will think they make the cut. Who wants to admit to being weak or cowardly? Dancing may not be considered a sport, but the Talkies are going to need lots of athleticism to endure what Jones has in mind. They’ve already grown robust from rich meat, and now they’re going to burn some calories whether they like it or not.

I have to stop this, but how? Perhaps I can convince Hank that the dance contest is silly and irrelevant to the feast. Then again, it’s a distraction that will postpone the Tates’ and Mrs. Keller’s hanging. The more time I can buy them, the better. That goes for the rest of the Talkies too.

Despite what they did to me on Halloween, I’ve forgiven them. Since ascending as a void-dweller, I’ve seen the big picture of what I’ve done and what Jones is trying to do. They may have formed a mob and killed me, but everyone in this town is my friend and neighbor. I’ve guided them through many a hard year, and they’ve turned to me with the gravest of their troubles and secrets. Turning against them now would be the ultimate betrayal, and I will not be a Judas. No sirree.

I’m going to try and save them, but what about Hank McClatchey and his ilk? If I don’t pardon the worst of the worst, what good am I? That’s what half of me is saying. The other half says that they’ve made their choice and should have to live with the consequences. The thing is, they might not be alive for much longer. Jones is ravenous and getting more so by the day. I’m surprised he’s held out so far. If he wins, he’ll be Farmer Jones as well as Preacher Jones. Everyone else, Talkie or Unvoiced, shall be pigs. Lord, how he’ll make them squeal in agony come my favorite holiday.

What’s that? I should take over Hank’s mind and make him set the Tates free in the dead of night?

I could, but I won’t. Free will. Besides, if you control the mind, you control the body as well.

* * * *

Here comes Santa Claus! Here comes Santa Claus! Right down Santa Claus Lane! Today there’ll be a giant feast, and I’ll never hunger again… At last, it’s Christmas, and I’m going to get the best gift I’ve ever gotten in my life. Thanks to Preacher Jones, my appetite will finally be satisfied.

I’ve taken twelve Tylenol this morning to keep the worst of my headaches at bay. I know. That’s twice the recommended dosage for adults, but if my head hurts too much, I can’t think straight. My other symptoms fade when I’m doped up on meds, too. I could ask some of my friends for something stronger. That makes me tired, though. It’s a balancing act that I’m tired of performing.

Meat. I’ve got to have meat. Peanut butter straight out of the big jar (cost: $50) won’t cut it.

I’m washed, shaved, and dressed in my one suit, which I had Jones alter. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at him, but he works miracles with a sewing needle. Today I hang our prized prisoners. Then I’ll serve them up on silver platters for the Talkies who win the contest to enjoy. As for the losers? I can’t wait to see their faces when they figure out they’ll suffer the same fate as the Unvoiced. Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it? It’s nothing more than what they deserve. The only difference between them and the winners is survivability. If I had my way, they’d all go on our new grill.

It’s human-sized. Jones built it especially for us. If there’s no snow today, we’ll have a barbecue.

* * * *

Hello and welcome, welcome, welcome to our first annual Community Christmas Banquet! You all may know me as Preacher Jones from the Bastion Bible Church. That’s correct, but today I’m also Santa Claus. To nine of you lucky adults, I’ll bestow the greatest gift I can: membership on our new town council. All I ask of you is that you take part in a dance contest around our Christmas tree. Round and round and round you’ll go. Where you’ll stop, nobody knows. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Yes, son? You’re wondering why kids can’t participate too? Sorry, but this is just for folks sixteen and older. If you like, you can whirl in place on your own. We want everyone to enjoy themselves. Afterward, we’ll have a feast unlike anything you’ve ever seen. I guarantee it. Our church ladies are warming up the kitchen, and Hank McClatchey will fire up our brand-new grill.

We’ll start with some easy music from Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker” – the part you all recognize. Remember the party at Uncle Drosselmeyer’s house? That’s the piece. I’ll turn on the PA system. There we go – oops! Watch your ears. Darn feedback plagues even the best electronics.

You all join hands now. Right around the tree. Be sure to leave enough space so that you don’t crash into it. Ignore all the lights and colors if you can. Being distracted means that down you’ll go! We’ll repeat this song for five minutes, then check and see how many of you are left. Ready?

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Here we go!

* * * *

No, Hank. Don’t go outside. It’s cold. DON’T go – You have a headache, remember? Dagnabbit! I wish I could grab that thick skull of yours and shake it till your brains leak out your ears! Too bad doing so will make me evil. I can’t control your mind, but I can make your body hurt. You have no coat on, no protection against the December chill. I’ll let it seep into your bones so you forget the grill and watch the dance contest. How will you figure out who to eat if you can’t see who the losers are? That’s it. You’re shivering. Turn around, go back inside, and warm up. Don’t let Jones see you. Stand against the wall and watch. Yes. You’ve never liked classical music, but this one hits the spot, doesn’t it? Look at the dancers go round and round. Let it make you a little bit drowsy.

It’s warm in the community hall, and it’s only going to get warmer. Even hot.

Preacher Jones’ church ladies are wondering why their new kitchen appliances are all so big.

They’ll find out as soon as the first person drops out of the dance. What can I do if I’m inside Hank? I can let the heat put him to sleep, but that’s pretty much it. When he’s out, I’ll leave him.

Wait. No, I won’t. I’ll call upon every void-dweller this side of the galaxy to aid me.

Come, Absolvers! Our friends are in trouble. No, they’re not just colonists, living resources to be expended. They’re not farm animals either. They’re people, just like we used to be. Don’t you remember what it was to be human? To be alive in a physical body of flesh? Despite the pain and trouble you sometimes had, wasn’t it a joy to live? You may not have been able to travel through space, but you could touch someone’s heart as well as hold their hand. You could laugh. You could learn. Most of all, you could love. Don’t let Jones and his hate win the day. Come to me. Help me save this town. One dancer for each of you. Lend them your stamina and your nimbleness. How can anyone lose the contest if you help them all to carry on? Who will Jones have to eat then?

Right. Hank McClatchey. Once he’s asleep at the switch, I’ll hide him in my shadow as best I can.

* * * *

Tired. So tired. I hate my job, and I hate my life. All I want to do is go to sleep and never wake up…

* * * *

Something’s amiss. Why hasn’t anyone stopped dancing yet? I know it’s only been five minutes, but whirling around in a circle, hand in hand, is hard to do unless you’ve had lots of practice. Look at them. Everyone’s evenly spaced and evenly paced, like they were all professionals. No one has fallen because they’ve gotten jerked out of position. No one’s gotten dizzy or tired. No one has quit. Not yet. Time to pick up the pace by an order of magnitude. No one can withstand Trepak.

Where the hell is Hank? Sitting on the toilet? Still standing outside? I don’t want him to miss this.

“All right, folks. We’ve only been at it for five minutes, but this song’s a bit too slow. Don’t you think?” Confused mumbles and shaking heads. “You’ve done really well so far. At this rate, all of you will win, and we can’t have that. Not even on Christmas.” Nervous laughter. “Do you recall the scene in Disney’s original ‘Fantasia’ with the dancing flowers?” A few knowing nods. “That’s called the Russian Dance, otherwise known as Trepak. Its tempo is ‘molto vivace.’ Does anyone know what that means?”

The Bastion Bible Church organist thrusts her hand in the air and waves it. “Very lively!”

“Good. That means not only lively, but fast. Very fast. You’ll have to keep up, or you’ll lose.”

“What if we do?” calls out the organist’s husband. “What’s the penalty?”

“Let’s just say you’ll be attending our feast, but not as one of the diners.”

Complete and utter silence. Then the organist cries out, “Run for it!”

Everyone rushes toward the double doors of the community hall, but I lock and bolt them shut with my mind. They push and shove, desperate to get out, but they’re trapped like rats. One man attempts to break a window, but I seal it so that all of his attempts to punch his fist through the glass only end in him having bloody knuckles. The same goes for all the fools who try the other windows. Screaming and shouting ensue. Drawing my finger across my throat, I silence my once-loyal followers, as if they’d been Unvoiced. They cough, choke, and sputter as they look for any nook, any cranny, any shaft of light that leads to the outside world. There are none. I am their only hope. Raising my arms, I conduct them like puppets to the Christmas tree and place them in their circle. I link their hands and delight in their frightened expressions. They’ve started to smell.

How does one eat a soul? First, one must savor its aroma. All sweat stinks, especially if you’re a teenager or adult, but fear sweat is the worst. I inhale its scent and revel in its rankness. It’s as if the townspeople have smeared manure onto their armpits instead of deodorant. They’ve used all their fragranced antiperspirants today, but those can’t cover up the stench of dread.

“Now,” I ask them, “will you dance, or will you die?”

“I’m in, Preacher Jones,” says one of the men who frequents the “Amen corner” at my church.

“Me too.” His wife, chubby-cheeked and ruddy with effort, seeks my approval as always.

“Very well. Let the Russian Dance begin. We don’t stop until all but nine drop.”

The opening notes of Trepak play, and it gets ugly from the start. Half the dancers try to jerk the other half off their feet, but they stay upright against all odds. If you’ve ever seen “Fantasia,” you might remember the colorful flowers in this segment. Animated thistles and orchids can dance at any speed, but there’s no way humans can withstand the blistering pace of approximately 152 beats per minute. They try their best, but it’s not long before my grand design comes into play.

Couples let go of one another’s hands on purpose, sending each other to the floor in faceplants. Friends and neighbors try to trip each other to the ground. Those who maintain a semblance of loyalty hold on as much as they can, but as the circle shrinks and closes in tighter, the wild and ravenous light of survival blazes in their eyes. Dance or die. Dine or be dinner. On this Christmas Day, there is no peace on earth and goodwill toward men. There is only me, and I seek slaughter.

The losers of the contest scramble to their feet and try to escape, but my faithful church ladies are ready for them. They hack into limbs and skulls with meat cleavers and butcher knives. Blood spurts and sprays everywhere. The victims shriek in terror as they find themselves being hacked into cooking-sized pieces. The remaining dancers try their best not to slip in the ever-widening puddles of gore. The children who were not allowed to participate scream at the top of their lungs and try to break down the doors. No luck. No one gets out unless they’re one of the nine winners.

“At last!” I cry. “This town is mine. Grandmother Anne, wherever thou art, I now cast thee out!”

I suddenly see Hank McClatchey, seated and snoring against the far wall. Why is he asleep?

No matter. That provides an excuse to give him what he rightfully deserves: a trip to the grill.

As for the others? They’ll meet the fate I have for them one way or another. All but my elect.

* * * *

All is lost. My plan to have my fellow void-dwellers spur all the dancers on to victory has backfired. None of us expected Preacher Jones to pull the trick he did. Now, in the midst of the carnage, what can we do to help? Perhaps the best thing we can do is leave, return to the void, but I won’t. Not yet. There’s one more strategy that might save us all, whether human or shadow being.

Jones is dragging Hank outside while everyone else is distracted. Good. I don’t want the children to see what I have in mind. As I forgive this town for its wrongdoing, please forgive us for ours.

We’re going to eat the Devil.

* * * *

No. This can’t be happening. I can’t go to the grill right now. It’s way too soon. I don’t see anyone else out here but me and the Preacher. He’s looking at me like a starving man looks at a steak.

“Please, sir. It’s me. Hank. Hank McClatchey. Your first disciple. Don’t eat me. There are others.”

“Yes,” says Jones, “but so far, those others have not failed and betrayed me, unlike you. I thought you were a man of action and courage. Turns out you’re a sniveling coward like all the rest.”

“What about all the Unvoiced and disloyal Talkies I hanged?”

“You did your job, and you did it well. That doesn’t mean I ought to spare you. In fact, the Bastion Bible version of Luke 17: 7-10 says that you shouldn’t thank a servant for doing his duty. I owe you no special rewards or gratitude. In fact, for your misdeeds, you merit this fate. Lie down.”

My eyes get as wide as dinner plates. “Never! I forsake you, Satan!”

“It’s too late for that. Besides, your words ring hollow. As long as I provide you with your daily meat ration, taken from the truly worthy citizens of this town, you grovel before me like a dog.”

“Well, I ain’t a dog no more. I won’t roll over so you can slit my chest open like you did Jack’s.”

“Very well.” Preacher Jones raises his arms, and I’m lifted high into the air. He rips my suit and boxer shorts in two, and they fall off, as do my shoes and socks. I’m now as naked as a jaybird. He lays me down on the grill and stretches out my arms like I’m Christ on the cross, but upside down.

“Okay, I’m a sniveling coward. I’m begging you. Don’t do this. You need me as Mayor, remember?”

Jones shakes his head. “I’ve someone else in mind. Someone with honor and integrity. Someone who’s endured a hunger strike up until recently. That’s right. I’m going to give Mr. Tate the chance to take your place. As much as I’ve enjoyed your bootlicking and your proficiency at hanging, I’d rather have a right-hand man who truly knows what loyalty means. As for you? You’ll make a full and scrumptious Christmas turkey for the whole town. You do weigh 285 pounds, do you not?”

“More like 290, ‘cause I’ve been eating well.” Oh, shit. Wrong thing to say. What’s Jones got now? Something that looks like a – OW! – meat thermometer. He’s stuck it straight into my right bicep.

“Good night, Mr. McClatchey. I’ll see you on the other side, where more of the same awaits.”

He slams the grill lid down and locks it. I swear it’s got a padlock. The coals below start to glow.

I start screaming. No one, whether good or evil, is coming to rescue me.

* * * *

You’re a sorry son of a gun, Horace McClatchey, but know this: never underestimate goodness. Never underestimate the power of beings who can zoom across the whole of space in the blink of an eye, but who also care enough about a single human being to come to their aid. We didn’t act fast enough in the case of the Unvoiced, and we regret this, but we have a chance to make amends. Steady, now. We’re going to rock the grill, tip it over, and see if we can’t get you out.

That’s it, my fellow void-dwellers. Back and forth. Rock it faster, faster, faster, and – NOW!

The grill crashes to the ground, and it makes the whole area around us shake.

The padlock gives. I didn’t think it would. I curl myself around it, shove with all my might, and get it off. The grill lid opens. Hank falls out, wearing nothing but his birthday suit. It’s a good thing I’m not still in a human body, because this sight would have made me pluck my eyes right out.

Stop screaming, you thug. Crawl your way out of this mess. You’re free. A little red, but free. That’s it. Pick yourself up and rub snow on yourself to cool off. Head for the woods. Hide your shame.

Come to my side again, void-dwellers. We’re going after Preacher Jones, who’s going after the Tates and Mrs. Keller. We can’t let them die, like we did all the others. Why didn’t we act sooner? Strength and numbers be damned. Why didn’t we do the one thing that would have damned us for their sake? Why didn’t we take control of Hank’s mind, if not Jones’s, so they’d all be set free?

I guess if we would’ve, we would have been just as evil as they are. Absolvers no more.

We have to head over to the county jail. Jones is on his way there. If a few of you want to go back to the community hall and try to help the survivors of the dance contest, go right ahead. I fear that my enemy’s grand plan has come to fruition. What if there are only nine adults left? What if there’s no one left, whether man, woman or child? Then all we’ve fought for will be for nothing.

I refuse this. I won’t go back to the void until I’ve saved the last of the Unvoiced.

* * * *

I’m free. I’m free. I’m free – AAAGGGHHH – I’m free. Got to find shelter quick, or I’ll freeze.

What’s that down below? By God, it’s the hatch! I even see the dried and bloodied fingerprints on the keys. Let’s see. What was the damn combination? One, three, four, two, seven? HEAVE-HO! Good thing the lid isn’t frozen shut. I’ll climb down, down, down, while it’s still daylight. I might not have any clothes on, but at least there are beds in this bunker, and maybe food.

Hallelujah! Warm blankets and boxes of stale crackers. I could sell these for a fortune. Oh well.

I’m lucky to escape with my hide. Thank you, Grandmother Anne. You came through for me when no one else would. I’m sorry for every hanging, every death at my hands, every bad thing I’ve ever done. I know I should be weighed on the Devil’s scale right now, but for whatever reason, you’ve spared me. I promise to be a good man from now on, even if I have to starve down here.

* * * *

Hello, Mr. Tate. How are you on this fine and frosty Christmas Day?

How eloquent. You’ve flipped me the double bird. You certainly look stronger now that you’ve eaten. Don’t worry. I’m not here to force-feed you. I’m here to propose a partnership. You, as the new Mayor, with me working behind the scenes. You’ll get the credit, but the glory will be mine. We’ll turn the Earth into a farm, because the one thing people absolutely need to do is eat. The protein value of an animal is high, but a human’s is higher. Legalizing and normalizing cannibalism will be the first step in eliminating world hunger. When we remove the stigma, we remove the potential for malnutrition and starvation. No one need have a chronically empty belly anymore.

What’s that? You and your wife say I’m insane? On the contrary. Feeding the world is one of the sanest things any god can do. Yes, I said “god.” With a small G, of course, but I will be one.

All right. You two have refused me. That means you’ll hang. What of you, Valerie? Yes or no?

I should’ve known. You’re stubborn, like your Unvoiced father. Whatever or whoever convinced you to have your vocal cords severed? They’re more evil than I am. You’ll face the noose as well.

Oh, cry all you want, brothers and sister. You’re fortunate to be under sixteen. You’re the next generation, and we won’t kill our next crop of children. The first generation of pure human meat.

Mrs. Keller? Why won’t you think of your son? He needs your love, and he needs your milk.

You say you’d rather die than yield to me? Then die you shall. All of you adults. Out of your cells.

Quick march to the scaffolding outside the jail. That’s right. Step in time. Left, right, left, right. Up the steps. There are thirteen, but don’t skip any. You just might fall. Keep your balance, fools.

Four at a time. Four nooses at the ready. Mr. Tate, Mrs. Tate, Valerie, and Mrs. Keller. Perfect.

Look. It’s starting to snow. How lovely. Do you have any last words or gestures before the end?

Wait. What’s happening to me? I’m choking – being choked – forehead skin splitting in half –

Arms twisting – legs buckling – being squeezed and ripped apart! The void-dwellers have a hold of me. I can’t stand much more of this in my human form, but my bestial form can repel them.

Not for long. They’re inside me now. I feel them pressing, pressing, grasping my heart and stilling it. Rending my organs until they explode. The pain is unendurable, even for me, the King of Hell.

AAAGGGHHH – I’m being peeled, just like an orange. Peeled and eaten. I’m disappearing. Naught will be left of me but my spirit, which can never die. It can only go back to where it came from.

Have I lost? No. I’ll be waiting for anyone who wants to make a deal to slake their power-hunger…

* * * *

It’s over. My people are no longer in danger. They’re safe now, but they’re not free. I’ll fix that. A few stitches should do the trick, along with some tissue modification to speed the healing process.

There. Try to speak, my dear friends. It’s time I let you go. You’re the bravest, strongest, and best citizens of this whole town, and I’d like you to lead. If you’ll accept the positions, of course. It’s always been up to you to decide. As for me? I’ll return to the void, to space, where I belong. We void-dwellers will search for a planet that’s truly lost, where the beings on it have no volition of their own and are oppressed. We will teach them the power of choice and the power of love.

In the meantime, celebrate. You’ve won the day, and you’ve remembered who you are.

* * * *

“M-Merry Christmas, Daddy. Mama.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Valerie. We love you.”

“What happens now?”

“We find survivors. We rebuild. We lead this town and help everyone in it, no matter what.”

“Even H-Hank? The hangman who served the Devil?”

“If he shows his sorry face around here, then yes, even him. We’ll never let him hurt us again.”

“What about the evil church? The one that Preacher Jones led? As far as I know, it’s still standing.”

“Hmm. How about we turn it into a homeless shelter? Many families have lost their farms.”

“Great idea, Dad. I’ll help you however I can. One thing, though: what about Grandmother Anne?”

“She…left us. I don’t think she’ll be back. Let’s practice what she tried to teach us, okay?”

* * * *

Twenty-seven adult survivors, thirty-six children, baby Trevor Keller included. Sixty-three in all.

All of them free.

Credit: Tenet