Beyond Hell's Gates

CHAPTER ONE

500 Years Earlier

During the morning of that Saturday, the second during an early March, the landscape showed two colors: grey and black. The mountains to the west stood barren, stoic, grudgingly casting shadows upon the picturesque little German town, while the sun played peek-a-boo with the heavy cloud covering that had developed. Although standing naked and bare in its true colors, the village was brazen, unashamed.

Balancing himself by holding onto a tree branch, Shane tried not to lose consciousness. Spreading from the crown of his head, past his throat and neck, and into his chest, the shooting pains worsened with each breath he labored to inhale. Doubled over, he vomited. The pain did not lie in the fact that he was powerless; it was the denial of his pleas to his master that disturbed him.

One must follow the path I have created.

His master’s words played themselves repeatedly in his head; they taunted him. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he glanced toward the Tower. Shane desperately tried to suppress the horrendous images of what was to come to no avail. The smell of their blood lust permeated the air; it sickened him. The people of Lindheim polluted the sweet aroma of the winter morning. The masses gathered, and, in one collective voice, decided to purge the wickedness that lived in town. The evil was a woman, his lover. From inside the left rear pocket of his trousers, he removed a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth tightly, seeking reprieve from their odor.

For days, Shane performed grand and glorious ceremonies. Each one filled with the most brutal of sacrifices and laced with prayer; they were planned and executed with great care and respect. His prayers, when left unanswered, infuriated him. He was left with one emotion for sustenance—anger. Grasping him with such force, it permeated into his soul until it consumed him entirely. With each passing of a heartbeat, the anger morphed itself into something more powerful than he could control. Saddened even more, he concluded he was slave to his passions

In the shadows, he would remain waiting after every unanswered prayer. Waiting for his next victim to help wash the pain from his heart was his only recourse. Lurking in silence, they fell innocently into his arms. The smell and taste of another’s blood and flesh would feed the anger. Emotions washed away leaving nothing more than a bittersweet memory of his helplessness. In the end, all that would be left were his acts of submission anyway. He wondered why he even tried.

On his knees, the tears ran from his eyes, down his cheeks onto his chin. Please, please, do not take her from me. I will do anything. Just offer a sign to me. Please, not her. If we are all powerful, then we can stop this. Please, hear my pleas. I beg mercy for her. Please do not leave me here alone. I do not want to be alone, not alone… I do not want to be alone.

His chest tightened as he heard a low rumble over the mountains.

Swallowing, he tried to rise to his feet to no avail. With one last glimmer of hope, he listened for an answer. He knew there would be none. Suppressing nausea, he took another deep breath and finally found the strength to stand erect.

Gazing toward the Tower, he saw the 100 or so do-gooders standing in small crowds, chatting with each other about the day’s planned activities, meandering about, and waiting for their town’s moment of glory.

Hesitantly, he walked toward the crowd. There was nothing left for him to do. There was nothing left for him to wish upon. Nothing left except to bear witness.

The crowd slowly moved to the outside of Lindheim’s Tower. The tower was two-story high, cylindrical, and constructed completely of bricks. Holding only one window at the very top of the tower left the insides of it dark and damp, but the lack of windows played an important part in keeping the evil-doings of the insides hidden from the local people.

The tower served the peasants well. A stone building reminding villagers that dissentients were not tolerated. Once suspected of the crime of witchcraft or of indecent behavior, the accused stayed locked in the tower awaiting inquiry. Torture always followed. So cruel and vile were the interrogations that confessions poured from the mouths of the innocent.

Horrible ghost stories poured from the mouths of the children that worked the fields around the tower. Last year, the children played a role in the perpetual state of panic that had gripped Lindheim. Most times, the children’s tales had fallen onto deaf ears, but an adult had been present during the ghost attack in the fields that summer day. The innkeeper across the way had verified that he, along with the children, had witnessed Mr. Lauber’s missing dog attack one of the boys in the field. Found guilty of cavorting with the devil, Mr. Lauber and his dog stood conviction. Death by stoning. In a stroke of luck, the dog had escaped the stoning, but was injured, and now haunted the fields around his master’s place of death.

At a town meeting, the Vicar proclaimed the children truthful, that all work in the fields was to cease until further notice. Many questioned his motives; others expressed anger over the loss of the cheap labor, but the Vicar did not back down.

The young boy attacked in the field on that day was the son of his mistress, and he knew if her children suffered, he suffered. His decision was final and stood strong to this day. Unable to live without his sexual meanderings, he closed the fields down.

Over the years, Shane had witnessed hundreds of incidents of murder and mayhem but nothing prepared him for this. He placed his right hand inside of his jacket and held it against his heart. It pushed back on his hand forcing it up and down. In a silly sort of way, he imagined his heart exploding right out his body into the desolate German woods. Shane brushed his fingers through his short blonde hair, straightened his long, black pea coat, and walked into the crowd.

A grin formed on his face as he entered the crowd. His 6’ 2" stature and golden locks blended well with the crowd. No one gave the stranger a second look.

A sudden hush fell over the talkative crowd, all eyes reverting to the Tower. Through the door of a tower appeared three figures: A thin, frail woman pushed out to greet the crowd. One of the two guards pushed back her long, dark hair and tied it in a knot behind her head. To watch her in such condition caused Shane unimaginable physical pain. As the cool air invaded his nostrils, he closed his eyes and asked for strength to avoid committing a massacre. To force his anger into the depths of his soul was difficult, but he was determined to see this task through to its end.

Her long, dark hair knotted and dirty, her eyes wide and wild. Her once smooth lips were swollen and cracked. For a brief moment, he imagined her on the night they first made love at her cottage; it sent chills through his spine. Looking at her in this condition broke his heart.

When his eyes met hers, he quickly turned away. It was too painful to bear the sight of her.

She blames me. I can see it. How could you not? Abandoning you was the last thing I wanted to do, but I had no choice, my dear Elizabeth. I do love you, he thought in silence.

The guards of the tower held the rope, keeping her arms behind her back. When they lead her out from the tower, the mob followed. Gradually the crowd moved closer to the podium.

The noise from the people grew slowly and systematically. Some hissed as the young, beaten woman made her way toward her funeral pyre. Most shouted parables from the Bible; others approached her and prayed for her soul. A few muttered the word whore. Tears streamed from her face, but she remained silent. Running towards her, the storekeeper stopped and spit in her face. She screamed of her innocence repeatedly, but the roar of the crowd overpowered her claims.

Unable to deceive himself any longer, the wish of standing by as only a witness was gone. He was an arm’s length from her now. The panic swelled up into his throat. Mustering all of his strength, he stopped himself from crying.

I do not care about consequences; I need to do something, he thought.

Closing his eyes, Shane sucked in a huge breath of the cold air; it filled his lungs. Holding it in, he concentrated on helping Elizabeth. His body became rigid as his shadow released itself from his soul to wither around Elizabeth’s feet. The dark mist, unseen by the others, began to enter her body through the pores of her flesh, until it found the light of her being. Slightly relieved that he was finally helping her did not diminish his fear of having his spirit free from his body. He feared his vulnerability without it. The thought quickly slipped from his mind; there were no indications of any confrontations that day.

Faceless hands ripped at her tattered and soiled dress, forcing her onto the podium. The keeper of the Lindheim Tower read the charges against the young woman: Murder, sorcery, witchcraft, and the ownership of Satan’s imps.

I am innocent, she pleaded to the crowd, Von Stran attacked me. Please, believe me. I only acted to protect my own life.

The crowd booed and hissed at her. Studying their reactions, Shane took mental notes of each person’s words. His time was only minutes away.

One of the guards held up the limp body of her cat. Bragging to the crowd, he held its body high above his head for the pleasure of the crowd.

The crowd roared and clapped, pleased with the guard’s actions.

The familiar should die with its witch. We need to get rid of all of Satan’s living things. Wonderful idea, burn the cat.

The guard took a step back, still holding the dead cat by the nape of its neck, and presented the Vicar of Lindheim to the crowd.

Confess! the Vicar demanded of the witch.

Proclaim God as your savior! some screamed.

Repent now! Save your soul in death! The crowd roared.

Shane blinked hard to fight back the tears as they led her from the podium and tied her to the stake. With one last breath, his shadow snatched her soul and tucked it safely inside of his own. One by one, the townspeople placed a piece of wood under her beaten body. A few townspeople cursed her to hell, as others laughed in her face. In silence, others prayed for her salvation.

Confess! The Vicar of Lindheim shouted as he smacked her face with his gloved hand.

However, the woman tied to the stake could not answer, for she had gone - to a safe place - where no boundaries stood between one’s desires and wants. The crowd followed the Vicar’s lead, yelling for her to confess to her crimes—to repent before the almighty passed judgment on her soul. Her eyes widened but she heard nothing, no voices, no chanting.

Two young boys ran from the crowd, lit torches in their hands. They stood before the woman; waited for the signal from the Vicar. Their eyes gleamed, their cheeks flushed with excitement. The younger of the two licked his lips with anticipation.

How many have you placed under your spell? The Vicar yelled. Stepping back, he moved over the pile of wood that surrounded her body, onto the flat ground. With your death, comes peace to our town, prosperity to our spring harvest, and relief to the people of Lindheim! The Vicar nodded his head and the boys eagerly moved to light the logs under her feet.

Stop! a voice shouted from the back of the crowd. The boys stood silent, lit torches in hand.

A cloaked man rushed into the center of the activity, mumbling prayers in Latin and blessing the crowd. The priest spoke aloud, There is no reason for the execution of this woman!

The stranger tried to see the man’s face that spoke, but the crowd started to gather around him.

Ask him if he has an erection under his cassock, one by-stander shouted.

Yes, Father, we already know how you feel about this matter, but there has been talk you fancy this girl, exclaimed the Vicar.

Shane raised his eyebrows, wondering if his Elizabeth was making love with others.

The priest wiped his runny nose, Please I beg of you all, do not execute in the name of the Lord! No one here is worthy enough to make decisions for the Christ!

The crowd yelled profanities, accused the Father of dirty deeds with the woman. Accusations flew through the crowd. An older man pushed on the priest.

There would be no other reason for him to run to the defense of a convicted witch. He loves her… has made love to her, yelled one bystander. Others agreed.

The circle of bodies tightened around the priest drowning out his cries for mercy on the woman while another man pushed the Father. From a simple shove, the crowd moved in closer, some swung angry fists; others, more daring, kicked him. Blood trickled from his mouth, nose, and shins. Clenching his hands onto the tailcoats of a young man, the Father tried to hold himself up, but lost his balance, to tumble to the ground. The Bible in his hands fell to the ground and lay near him, pages ripping underfoot as the crowd converged upon him.

Enough! yelled the Vicar, we have other matters to address at the moment!

As the priest lay on the ground beaten and bloody, a childhood memory flashed through his mind. He no longer felt the sting of the punches or of the ripping of his skin by rocks, or of the kicks to his head. Maybe the beating had stopped or maybe he was dead. Death! For how long he wished for that. Nevertheless, his longing for death interrupted by a vision of the lovely blue sky, remained out of his mind. The sunshine warmed his face. He saw himself smile as the blanket of darkness covered his eyes.

Shane thought about intervening in defense of the priest, but he repressed it. In spite of his own existence, Shane hated injustice and the harming of the innocents. His instincts demanded he stay put, and he always followed his inner voice. The attack on the good fellow did not surprise Shane; he had seen fury and hatred like this before. Feeling some type of kinship toward the cloaked man made Shane wonder if the priest was like him.

But as a priest? Hardly.

The beating of Shane’s heart grew stronger as the moment of Elizabeth’s death neared. Taking a step back, he gazed toward his Elizabeth.

The townspeople quickly made their way back from the priest’s beaten body to the funeral pyre.

Shane gazed into the eyes of the stout-bodied man called the Vicar of Lindheim. A huge wind swept into the valley and the crowd held onto their hats and coats. Large, fluffy snowflakes began to fall as thunder roared in the distance. Many folks looked up into the sky affirming to one another that a storm was making its way into town.

Shane’s stare on the Vicar did not waver. Once the vicar noticed the stranger’s stare, a hot chill ran down the back of his spine. The Vicar trembled. Suddenly feeling feverish, he let out a large puff.

Opening his mouth, the Vicar tried to catch the falling snowflakes in hopes of quenching his sudden thirst. Despite the bone-chilling temperatures that now invaded Lindheim, a trickle of sweat fell from the Vicar’s right temple, skated down his face, and dripped onto the collar of his coat. Feeling his body temperatures rise, he undid the top button of his tight-fitting coat.

I am burning up!

Still searching for relief, he opened the next button and the next of his coat until it was completely off his body, lying on the ground next to him.

The wind howled and bit at his flesh but it did not sooth the burning inside of the Vicar’s body. He began to cough, sputtering up small amounts of blood that dribbled down his chin. He tried to remove his handkerchief from his breast pocket, but paralysis stopped his motion. His body quivered in a fit as if being electrocuted repeatedly. The boys with the torches called to the crowd for help. Now covered in his own sweat and blood, the vicar tried to call out to the crowd. In vain, he summoned all his strength to look away from the stranger’s gaze. Shane smiled at him. The Vicar’s body swayed back and forth like a rubber doll yanked by two children.

Quickly, announced the town mayor, light the fire, the witch is killing the Vicar!

Working fervently, the boys quickly spread the flames from their torches to the logs under the young woman’s body. The Vicar’s body danced its last to the gasps of the crowd.

Shane moved his attention to the guard that held Elizabeth’s dead cat. The guard felt movement in his hand. Looking down at the animal, he raised its corpse to his face to get a better look at it. The cat sprang into action. It leaped to scratch his face in two swoops. The cat landed on the ground on all fours to hiss at the crowd. Putting his hand to his bloody face, the man revered the cat before him. It began clawing at his legs. Fear stopped the guard from kicking the cat. Continuing to hiss, the cat dug its claws deeper into the man’s left ankle.

The devil is at work here! A bystander shouted.

The crowd retreated from the cat. As quick as the cat had attacked, it stopped and looked at its owner. Without hesitation, the cat jumped into the fire to disappear inside the flames.

Just as an idea popped into the mayor’s head, that he might be able to save the village from the witch’s spell, he turned from the crowd. He could not believe what he was watching.

He observed Greta, his wife, crouched on all fours, her dress pushed over her shoulders, as the local storekeeper indulged himself inside of her. Without any hesitation, the mayor ran to the open field behind the Tower, struggled with a shovel, and plucked it from the frozen ground.

He murdered the man coupled to his wife with one blow. Blood poured from the storekeeper’s head as the crowd hissed over the murder. The useless chatter that had consumed the crowd earlier had turned to cries of fear and screams of terror.

Shane smiled.

The brother of the dead storekeeper, watching in horror as the mayor murdered his brother. He raised his shotgun to shoot the mayor dead. Laughing with insanity, he walked over to the widow to continue what his brother had started.

Two little girls, no more than 5, wearing their best attire for the witch burning, began to argue. One push led to a punch, as the girls clawed each other’s faces with their nails, drawing blood from their pure white flesh. Their screeching cries filled the air. Across the way, two young men brutally beat a young girl to death, and then moved on top of her dead body to desecrate her sexually.

Shane watched the scenes as if it were a chess battle, once piece falling down at a time.

Neighbor against neighbor, blood against blood. Lindheim against Lindheim.

When the last drop of blood spilled, Shane laughed into the snowy sky. The broken bodies of Lindheim lay before the pyre of his woman.

I did this all for you, darling, only for you. You will be with me always.

Lightning flashed overhead. Black clouds filled the sky above Lindheim. The stranger looked up in honor of the storm.

Shane hurried to the stake and with his eyes began to caress Elizabeth. Speaking tenderly to her through his thoughts, he whispered about his undying love for her. He allowed the flames to consume her flesh. The smell sickened him.

Her soul would remain inside of his.

He sighed as thunder filled the air. A terrible snowstorm, along with death, had come into town. Laughing into the sky, he set free the fire on his love’s pyre. In small, incandescent batches, the fire jumped from the pyre onto the ground to devour everything in its path. It quickly ate its way toward the town.

Shane looked to the area where the priest’s body was laying, but it was gone. He was going to spare the priest the death sentence of Lindheim, but Shane could not find him. While he smirked, he walked into the shadowy woods as heavy snow blanketed the area. The wet snow caused the fire to crackle and whistle with the wind as it devoured the village.

CHAPTER TWO

Gloria Lopez slipped the leash around her shepherd’s neck and slammed the condo door behind them. Lady pulled on the leash, but Gloria fought back. The dog let out a whimper.

Gloria smiled to wonder who enjoyed the daily walk more, her or the dog. Lady held up one paw and looked up at her master. Gloria released the animal’s leash. The dog sprinted towards the beach. Sand tracks spewed behind the animal when she dug her paws deep into the ground.

Gloria noticed the cloud cover arrive. She was glad she decided to take the walk an hour earlier that morning. The serenity of the beach soothed her spirit. She took in a few deep breaths and began to relish in it.

The night before had turned out to be another anxiety-ridden evening. When she awoke from a deep sleep with sweaty palms and a racing heartbeat, Gloria thought she would die. Despite the attack being number 15 that month, the fear of death always accompanied each. Even after the attack passed and the fear of death subsided, Gloria still wondered if the attacks could kill her. She thought she would be accustomed to them my now, but there would be no such luck for her.

It’s only an anxiety attack, she repeated last night, you are not going to die. Not just yet, silly girl.

While her mind believed it, she only wished she could relay that to her body. Using her deep breathing exercise, she eventually controlled the attack. When she was wide-awake last night, she grabbed one of her herbal catalogs and started reading. That was when the storm rolled in. Two cracks of lightning caused the light to go out. She scurried to find her candles, lit them and opened a bottle of wine. Determined to obtain some sleep, she drank until she finished the bottle.

When she awoke this morning, she felt better and rested. The five-hour wine-induced nap did the trick for her. Looking out over the horizon, she watched Lady romp in the sand.

As Lady dipped her paws into the salt water, she noticed the dark clouds quickly overtaking the blue sky. Frowning, she called to the dog before she became completely soaking wet. Last week, when Lady jumped into the ocean, Gloria had been stuck giving her bath to rid the