Belleauwood Horror

[Azathoth]

Hello everyone! I've been a lurker here for some time, and this is my first post. I wanted to share a short story I recently completed (it's horror - is that okay?) and I hope to post on these forums often.

So, here's my short story - the Belleauwood Horror! Oh, and feel free to trash it up, tell me what you hate about it, and so on - any criticism would be greatly appreciated (not to sound like a masochist, lol).

Also, it's kind of long - I hope that's not a problem. *blush*


The Belleauwood Horror

Ba’al Zebub, Lord of Dung, Lord of Flies, hungers and thirsts for the soured blood and decaying flesh of
the dead, but lives solely to smell the fear of the living, to taste their horror, to see them weep, to hear their mewling supplications. He has waited impatiently in darkness eternal for this particular moment in history , the great clash of all civilizations, when the weeping and suffering of mortals is at its greatest. And now that he is unleashed, he intends to savor every minute of his terrible freedom.

His only regret is that his dark Master has placed restrictions upon his behavior.

“You know me now to be Most Merciful, my faithless Lieutenant, for I have decided to grant you your pathetic petition. Hell shall spit you forth for the duration of this war, worm, and once amongst the little lambs you may slake your lust for death. But I warn you, do nothing more than gratify your need for carnage. If you attempt to directly corrupt, or to sway religion or politics or the war, your torment shall know no end. I do not want the little lambs to understand the true peril. And Ba’al…once your little escapade is over, you will remember our agreement, correct? Good. Now leave me, Worthless One.”

Ba’al Zebub gnashes his maw into a parody of a smile. Worm? Worthless One? Perhaps, but here Ba’al Zebub is master. Here, the little piglets will fear him, and will eventually come to worship him, as the bloodthirsty pagans of old once did. Then Ba’al Zebub will be powerful enough to overthrow the dark Master, be powerful enough to consume this world, be powerful enough to storm the very Gates of Heaven and cast out the One who thinks Ba’al Zebub unfit to be a cherubim…

In due time. But first, Ba’al Zebub wants to satisfy his gluttony. It is unfortunate that he cannot go forth to feast right away, but the Sun always robs him of his precious shadows, always reveals his true nature, and Ba’al Zebub isn’t powerful enough to challenge the dark Master yet. He must bide his time underground and go above when only twilight falls, when the shadows hide his true demonic nature, when the shadows disguise him as a mere boogeyman.

Ba’al Zebub, Lord of Dung, Lord of Flies, can wait. He has waited patiently in darkness eternal to feast upon the mortals; he can wait patiently now.

***

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh…”

Father Ethan paused, Bible in one hand and a rosary in the other, a white collar underneath his khaki doughboy uniform. Everything about him screamed, “Priest!” – especially as he gently handed the rosary to the young, pale soldier sitting before him. He patted the young man on the shoulder.

“This may very well be the darkest hour of your life, my friend, but you will pass under this dark cloud and find the day again. And if not in this life, then the next. Don’t let your heart be troubled.”

Father Ethan rose from his chair. The young soldier mumbled his thanks, his face doubtful, but Ethan could detect sincerity in the soldier’s voice. Ethan left the legless boy laying in the hospital bed, pondering over his story. A monster hunting soldiers at night, over near the Belleauwood trenches? Absurd! Yet, what had the doctor said?

“Looks like…well, looks like he’s been bitten in half, like he says he was. I just don’t know – it doesn’t look like a mortar wound to me, Father, but I’m not going to sit here like a jackass believing some deeply disturbed private’s tale of ghouls and goblins.”

Under normal circumstances, Father Ethan would have agreed with the doctor. But more and more ambulances were coming in from the Belleauwood region, bringing to the hospital soldiers with the most peculiar and horrid of wounds. Now Father Ethan wasn’t so sure that the young man was delusional – and the doctor, upon having to examine more and more of these strange cases, was beginning to agree with him.

So Ethan sent a letter to the Chaplain stationed at the site of these strange occurrences. The responding letter had been difficult to read, covered in grime, with most of the words smeared beyond comprehension.
“…I think I’m insane. I think we’re all insane…a demon, hunting…I had a dream, though, from…You…letter…come here, please, I implore you, come here…darkness…my death is imminent…we need you. You will find…”

Ethan had been deeply disturbed by the letter. He wondered briefly if the Chaplain had been right, that everyone stationed in that region had gone insane. It seemed unlikely, though, so he pursed his lips, and once more composed a letter to the Chaplain. A week later, a runner returned with news that the Chaplain was missing and presumed to be dead.

Father Ethan’s reaction came immediately. He called in a few favors, and was relocated to the front lines, near Belleauwood, where Father Ethan feared he might some grain of truth to the dark words of the deceased Chaplain.

***

Captain Beckstein drummed his fingers on his desk, staring at the priest sitting before him, wondering what he ought to do. The priest, an inquisitive little *******, wanted to know what was going on, why soldiers were leaving the battlefield in ambulances, each with strange injuries. Should he tell the man the truth? If the priest didn’t believe him, he’d report him back at headquarters. No one would believe his story that something truly did hunt his men at night, breaking their morale. They’d just laugh at him and say, “Yeah, that’s what you get when you cross an Italian and a Jew.”
Beckstein came to a decision.

“How long will you be staying?” he asked, his New York accent heavy.

“As long as need be,” said the priest.

“Then go get some rest. You’ll see what we’re up against soon enough.”

The priest shook Beckstein’s hand, and left the bunker.

“Its gonna be a long night,” Beckstein smiled humorlessly as he sat alone.

This Chaplain was going to be in for a rough shock.

 

[Azathoth]

Twilight. To Ba’al Zebub, the setting of the cursed Sun comes as a chiming bell, a call to dinner. The terrible demon is spat forth from the earth, much to his anxious delight. He is famished, but cautiously waits for the Sun to make its way below the horizon – he must not take any chances in revealing his true form.

Finally! The cursed Sun is gone, and now the feast can begin. Ba’al Zebub searches first for an entrée, something to excite his lust. Ah! This corpse, throat swollen, eternally choking on foul gases in its still lungs. Delightful! But not enough to excite him into a frenzy. Ba’al Zebub needs more. He devours several more corpses – choosing those bodies which appear to have died most horribly – before deciding to feed upon the fear of something living.

That always excites him the most.

He stalks over to one side of No Man’s Land, the shadows chasing after him, playing and dancing. The shadows worship him…and so will the little lambs, before long, vows Ba’al Zebub.

Ah, here is one little mortal, shivering with fear. A German, Ba’al Zebub notes. Ah, well, Germans, Americans, British, Hungarians - they’re all the same manure, whatever petty differences they may squabble over.

And they taste the same, too.

Ba’al Zebub creeps slowly behind the little lamb, smiling savagely. Several other piglets see him, but they are paralyzed with fear. Let them see him! Let them fear him! With fear comes worship, and Ba’al Zebub craves worship.

***

A disturbing stillness settled upon the trenches as twilight began to fade into black. Men on both sides of the battlefield - men hardened by trench warfare - cringed in their dugout shelters, their bone-white hands trembling, clutching their rifles, wide eyes darting everywhere in the growing darkness. The musky scent of their fear outweighed the rotten stench of their dead comrades and the lingering tang of poison gas.

Malevolence stirred. Everyone could feel the darkness swirl as some hellish presence cut through No Man’s Land. No one moved. To create motion was to draw its attention, and to draw its attention was to bring about a premature, horrible demise. No, not one single soldier dared move.

Now, one soldier had the misfortune of detecting its foul odor as it crept alongside the trenches. Paralyzed with fear, his eyes bulging from their sockets, he realized it was near. He held his breath, and closed his eyes, praying it would pass. But it didn’t. The foul thing tore off the arm of a half-rotten corpse with a sickening pop, snatching it into its great, horrible maw. The soldier, upon hearing the presence so very close to him, let out a hollow cry, and flung himself forward, whirling about at the same time to gaze upon this horrible…thing.

He gazed in silent, paralyzed horror as the great monstrosity reached down into the trench towards him. He worked his mouth, desperately trying to formulate a scream, but all that escaped his throat was a pathetic, trembling wheeze. A terrible hand encompassed the soldier’s entire head, when finally the soldier managed to scream. With a flick of its terrible wrist, the monster wrenched the soldier’s head free of his body.

The behemoth paused to admire its latest trophy, before devouring the corpse of this freshly slain victim. A handful of nearby soldiers stared in horror as the demonic thing feasted, but dared not move themselves, for fear of sharing the fate of their comrade. They could only watch as this terror fed – they could only watch, and pray.


***

Midnight. The fat moon, nestled in its web of stars, was obscured by a haunting, green haze. A short-lived scream had cut through the fog just four or so hours ago, and then came the crunching of bone and the tearing and slurping of bloody meat. The noise subsided, and silence reigned again. Captain Beckstein waited anxiously, peering into the green mist. The scream came from the other side of No Man’s Land – which meant some Kraut had just bought it. Any minute now, the thing – whatever it was – would come to the American line and take its second victim, as seemed to be its custom.

Not tonight, Beckstein swore grimly. Tonight you meet your better, beast.

Crunch. Beckstein gasped softly, but quickly recovered. The monster was nearby, waving its way through the field of the dead, its feet crushing the skulls of the slain. It was hunting. Beckstein gathered all of his courage, and hoped that his men were doing the same.

“Now!” he bellowed.

Flares shot into the night sky, pouring light and shadows across the region. American soldiers sprung from the trenches, their Springfields blazing at the monster’s shadowy figure. A terrible roar shook the earth, and suddenly men were scrambling frantically away as the demonic thing came after them, its eyes burning, its teeth glinting in the flares’ light. One soldier was snatched up, and then thrown screaming across No Man’s Land. Another doughboy was squashed under the thing’s fists, and yet another was bitten in half. The monster roared once more, a serrated edge to its voice, and continued to unleash its rage upon the soldiers.

Beckstein stumbled backwards as the monster came towards him. He still couldn’t make out any distinguishable features upon the monster – it was as though the shadows gathered about the beast like a cloak - and it was difficult for Beckstein to locate the monster’s precise location, as though he were seeing in doubled vision. Despite this handicap, Beckstein drew his revolver from its holster, and fired off a round. He cocked the hammer back and squeezed the trigger again. The shadowy thing continued its swift march towards him, sweeping soldiers aside as a scythe through fields of wheat. Beckstein shot at the creature again, and then it was upon him, its great fists heaving upwards into the hellish-green night. It then swung its fists down at a terrible speed towards him, and Beckstein knew in that instant he was as good as dead.

Except the crushing blow never came. Beckstein opened lowered his arms, and saw the thing’s enormous fists positioned a foot above his body, held perfectly still. The Captain briefly wondered if time had stopped, when suddenly the monster lowered its fists and stood erect.

“Priessssst.”

Beckstein nearly burst into tears, so shocked and frightened was he by the sudden revelation that this beast, this monster, this thing could speak.

“I smell a priest. Come out, little lamb. Your brother tasted so fine…the fear of a holy man is such a delight. Where are you, little lamb?”

Beckstein crawled backwards on his elbows, desperate to be away from this thing. The monster didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m here,” came the voice of Father Ethan.

Beckstein, pushing himself onto his feet, saw the priest atop a small hill, a Springfield in hand, silhouetted by the flares in the night sky. The monster didn’t say a word; it merely moved towards the priest with preternatural grace. Father Ethan likewise responded without a further word – he merely tossed the Springfield rifle to Beckstein, who caught the weapon, staring stupidly at the priest for a split second. The monster whirled to face Beckstein, and in that instant, the Captain instinctively thrust the bayonet into the monster’s leg.

Years later, Beckstein would admit that probably wasn’t the brightest thing he could have done. It would have been much more intelligent to throw down the weapon and run, or to throw down the weapon and beg the monster to leave him alone. But, by instinct, he stabbed the monster in its shadowy calve.

The monster stared incredulously at the Captain, who stared back in shock. Then he noticed a small amount of black liquid on his bayonet. The thing raised its fist to backhand Captain Beckstein into the afterlife, when Father Ethan raised up a cross, and spoke with calm conviction.

“In the name of God, flee, demon.”

Ba’al Zebub, Lord of Dung, Lord of Flies, fled.

 

[Azathoth]

Ba’al Zebub whimpers in the darkness.

The little piglets have wounded him, and now they know his true nature. The dark Master, unforgiving as he is, will break Ba’al Zebub over and over again for this. But Ba’al Zebub can mend the situation.

Yes, the terrible Lieutenant of Hell knows precisely what he shall do – he shall lure the pathetic little lamb-priest to his lair, as he did the other holy man. A simple dream always works, as the worthless little animals superstitiously think dreams are truth.

Ba’al Zebub grins wickedly in the womb of the earth.

And then he slumbers.

***

“Are you sure about this?” Captain Beckstein asked skeptically.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Yes, Captain, I saw its lair in my dream. If we want to end this thing, we must track it down.”

“Well…I mean, sure, maybe your dream is true, and that thing really is hiding out in some cave in No Man’s Land, but…c’mon, crawling through No Man’s Land during broad daylight seems a little nutty, don’t you think?”

“We have no choice in the matter, Captain. You saw the shadows around that demon,” Beckstein winced at the word ‘demon’, “That thing is way too stealthy and fast for us to fight at night, out in the open.”
Beckstein bit back his frustration, and let out a ragged sigh, “Well, if you insist. Good luck, priest.”

“You’re coming with me, Beckstein.”

“What? No way!”

“Do you want this thing dead?”

A pause.

“Well, do you?”

“Are you absolutely sure we can kill the thing?”

“I told you before, the Springfield has been blessed. It will pierce the demon’s heart as surely as the Legionnaire’s lance pierced the side of Jesus.”

“Which reminds me – how the hell did you know to bless the thing?”

Father Ethan smiled, “A hunch. The idea just struck me when twilight came.”

A pause.

“Alright, I’ll go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Very well. It will be just you and I. Is that acceptable?”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Fancy-Speaking-Theologian. Just the two of us. Understood.”

“Don’t forget to bring the rifle.”

“No, I’m an idiot, and I’m going to forget to bring our only weapon against this demon.”
Father Ethan stared at Beckstein for a moment, and then a brief smile flashed across his face, “You sure have a sharp tongue.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t grow up in the Bronx with a daisy behind your teeth.”

“You’re from the Bronx?”

“Yeah – got a problem with that?”

“I’m from the Bronx – went to seminary to escape.”

“That’s why I joined the Army…”

A brief smile was shared between the two men.

“Two lads from the Bronx? This demon doesn’t stand a chance.”

***

No Man’s Land. A field of barbwire, mangled corpses, filth and disease, and sharp metal fragments waiting to bite into some soldier’s flesh. On one side of the field, German snipers scanned the region, wary of any sudden movement. At any sign of trouble, the snipers would blast away with their Mausers, and if the trouble persisted, artillery would be used.

It felt like a deathtrap to Father Ethan, who crawled through the grime behind Beckstein. A small cut from the barbwire, and he’d be infected with some horrible bacteria. If a sniper saw him crawling steadily towards the center, he’d be shot in the head. The fear of crawling through this horrible territory almost outweighed his fear of confronting the demon.

The stench of rot overwhelmed him at one point, and he retched. Beckstein froze, terror upon his face, but fortunately no one noticed Ethan’s heaving. The two continued on their way.

“How much further?” Beckstein turned back to whisper.

“Its just up ahead,” Ethan responded, his voice hoarse.

Beckstein nodded, and continued his crawl. Soon he found himself staring into a gaping hole in the ground, to his relief, and he heard Ethan say, “This is it.”

Beckstein retrieved a flashlight from his belt and shined it into the hole, but before he could shine it into the darkness, Ethan came up beside him, and without a word, slid in. Beckstein steeled himself, and then followed, dropping about ten feet before he hit the ground.

Beckstein braced himself for the worst, scanned the area with his flashlight, and saw Ethan doing the same. Nothing. This tunnel was barren. Beckstein let out a sigh of relief, and quickly noted how wide the tunnel was. Good – there’d be no crawling around, then.

“This tunnel is steep – the lair must be deep underground,” Ethan noted.

“How can you be so damn calm about this?”

“Necessity.”

The two began their journey into the dark depths.

***

The little lambs enter a large cave bristling with travertine teeth, their doom sealed. Ba’al Zebub clings to the roof of the cavern, hidden in shadow, salivating at the prospect of tearing the little priest limb from limb. The piglets, carrying only flashlights, are totally unaware of his presence, of their impending demise.

Ba’al Zebub silently promises to make it as painful as possible.

Slowly, like a spider creeping towards the fly ensnared in its web, the fiend crawls across the ceiling, slipping with ease between the numerous stalactites. They are under him now, and Ba’al Zebub grows excited, his hunger for these two mortals overwhelming him. It would be so easy to drop down, rip them apart…

But that wouldn’t satisfy the gluttonous Ba’al Zebub. No, he needs their fear, he needs them to beg for mercy in their last moments. He lets the shadows flee from their captivity, and then drops to the ground before the two trembling lambs.

Let the pathetic little lambs see him in all his hideous glory.

Let them cower before him.

***

The twin beams of light traced its every outline. The demon’s body was asymmetrical, its limbs barbed, its skin covered in mucus. The demon’s belly, swollen as though pregnant with decay, hung below its pelvis, and two wings, charred and broken, sprung from its back. The demon’s head was more hideous still, as it appeared to be a cross between the head of a bear and the face of a spider.

But the worst aspect of the demon were the faces.

Faces, human faces, pressed stretched the demon’s skin from within, their mouths opened to scream in silent pain.

The demon let them examine him thoroughly before speaking.

“Will you beg for mercy? Will you pray to me, your dark god?”

A part of Ethan wanted to drop down on all fours and cower. That part wanted to acquiesce to the demon’s demands, to give himself wholly and freely. He could tell from Beckstein’s trembling that the
Captain felt that same urge.

“Yes…give yourselves to me. I will ease your suffering. I will consume you, and there will be no more pain.”

Beckstein dropped his rifle. Ethan wanted to scream, but, as in a nightmare, he had no control over his body.

“Yes, give yourselves to me. I am the only one who loves you for what you are, who wants you. I can end your fear.”

Almost in unison, the two soldiers stepped towards the demon.

“Little lambs, so lost, so frightened. Come to your shepherd.”

Another step.

“My children, when we are one, you shall know no end. Come to me, pray to me, the fallen cherubim. I am the spider, and you are the flies. I am your lord. Pray to me.”

Ethan stopped dead.

Fallen cherubim. Spider. Flies. Lord.

“Beelzebub.”

The demon stopped speaking.

“Beelzebub…Lord of Flies.”

The earth began to tremble. The demon stared at Ethan, its eyes pure hate, pure rage. Suddenly, the floor of the cavern split open between the two soldiers and Ba’al Zebub, pouring orange light into the room. From the crack, a vast legion of voices, flat and hoarse, spoke in unison.

“Ba’al Zebub, Worthless One, Lord of Nothing – you have broken our bargain. You have revealed yourself, and you have tried to corrupt these two little lambs.”

“Master…but I can fix this!”

“The bargain has already been broken. It cannot be fixed. Your time here over. Come back now.”

Ba’al Zebub glared balefully at the two mortals, and without another word, the foul Lieutenant of Hell fell into the crack.

The orange glow died, leaving Father Ethan and Captain Beckstein in darkness.

***

Ba’al Zebub is back in Hell, where he is no longer the dark god.

No matter, he has an eternity to reverse the situation. And there will always be other wars, other times to satisfy his hunger.
[FONT=&quot]
Ba’al Zebub, Lord of Dung, Lord of Flies, can wait. He has waited patiently before in darkness eternal to feast upon mortals; he can wait patiently again. [/FONT]

 

[Marky Lazer]

Whoa! Dude not too much in one go, please. I try to comment on the first today...

 

[Azathoth]

Terribly sorry! Was it rude of me to post the whole thing?

 

[Marky Lazer]

No, my fault, I saw it were three posts and assumed it were three stories.

 

[MainComputer]

A masterpiece. Amazing! I could not stop reading.

Though not the usual type of story I would reador enjoy, I found the piece extraordinarily good. You write with skill, handle the pace mastefully, and paint scenes clearly. Some excellent similies and metaphors in there too.

I really, really enjoyed this! READ IT PEOPLE!

You want criticism? Well, I can hardly give it, but here are a handful of personal feelings:

The word Bogeyman felt a little out of place to me, for such a hideous daemon. It suits what he is describing perfectly and concisely, but just didn't fit for me.


This: "The fat moon, nestled in its web of stars, was obscured by a haunting, green haze" - I loved

The start of this sentence: "It then swung its fists down at a terrible speed towards him, and Beckstein knew in that instant he was as good as dead." - seemed to stop the flow of that paragraph, with the use of "it then".

Calve = Calf?

"Mr. Fancy-Speaking-Theologian" - This didn't fit with me either, but I know nothing of what an early century Bronx boy might say!


***


Brilliant, just brilliant.


***


I'd be very grateful if you could perhaps take a look at my "The First of War" post, and provide any relevant comments. Just because I've been positive about your piece, dont feel you should do likewise. As you do, I prefer the truth!


Thanks again.

 

[Marky Lazer]

Lord of Dung

*Hmmm… that doesn’t sound too impressive, maybe you want to say something like rot instead of dung.

He has waited impatiently in darkness eternal for this particular moment in history,
*, should be a ;

It’s unlikely a priest would say: a time to kill

Ethan left the legless boy laying in the hospital bed, pondering over his story.
*lying

“Yeah, that’s what you get when you cross an Italian and a Jew.”
*Italian with a Jew?

“Its gonna be a long night,”

*It’s

He devours several more corpses – choosing those bodies which appear to have died most horribly – before deciding to feed upon the fear of something living.
*bodies, which

Ah, here is one little mortal, shivering with fear. A German,
*To make your story more authentic, you might want the German soldier to shout something in German: “Gnade, bitte!” (Mercy, please)

And they taste the same, too. – that made me smile.


If this is a true horror story, you describe the attack on the unfortunate soldier in more detail. You’re here to engross the reader, aren’t you?

Beckstein opened lowered his arms

*Doesn’t make sense

Years later, Beckstein would admit
*Oh… you give away that he’s going to survive!

“That thing is way too stealthy and fast for us to fight at night, out in the open.”
*I’d say, even out in the open. In the open there are less shadows, but you want to stress the shadows are on the creature.
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Fancy-Speaking-Theologian. Just the two of us. Understood.”
*Maybe you want him to curse here.
You need to create more tension in crawling through No Man’s land

Slowly, like a spider creeping towards the fly ensnared in its web
*Have you ever seen a spider catching a fly in her web? They go pretty damn fast.

No, he needs their fear, he needs them to beg for mercy in their last moments.
*[…] fear; he needs […]

Your time here over.
*is over

It’s not as creepy as it could be. I think if you manage to create some more tension and engross the reader with blood and torn off limbs, you get a better result.

 

[Azathoth]

Lord of Dung

*Hmmm… that doesn’t sound too impressive, maybe you want to say something like rot instead of dung.

Well, in medieval Christian mythology (where I drew him from), that was Beelzebub’s title. No, it isn't very impressive, heh.

It’s unlikely a priest would say: a time to kill.

He’s quoting the Bible.

Years later, Beckstein would admit

*Oh… you give away that he’s going to survive!

Oh, thank you! *slaps forehead* I’ll change that.

You need to create more tension in crawling through No Man’s land

That’s a damn good idea. I did think that kinda fell flat.

Thank you very much for all your corrections! I never would've caught them all!

 

[Marky Lazer]

"[...] and there is a time to kill [...]"
Is that really a line from the Bible?

 

[Azathoth]

Yeah, it's in Ecclesiastes.

 

[Azathoth]

Oh, and MainComputer, thank you very much for your kind comments. You're right about the wording - I've made the changes. Again, thanks.