It had been a long few months for Deacon. Today was one of the worst. He had to meet with his Commissioner and display evidence of cult activity in Ironside City. It was doing about as much good as arguing with a brick wall though.


       “We have a serious problem here. In August, we find a tenement with...what was the final count?” Deacon turned to Matt.

       “Forty-two possible victims.”

       “Forty-two possible victims over a period of god knows how long. We have a Suicide victim covered in ritualistic scars who had a page from a stolen book which lead us to a restaurant with another half dozen found victims hanging by meat hooks in an industrial freezer! All of the victims were covered in the same markings as both the suicide victim and Alexandre Warner.”

       “Who?” Matt leaned out of his leather chair.

       “The Skinny Man. Finally got an ID on him. He spent 5 years off the cost of Cambodia with the exact same tribe of Tcho-tcho that were linked to the Black Dragon restaurant which had the bodies in it! On top of all that we have a page from the stolen book that belonged to the restaurant owner found in the barrel of the gun of a suicide victim covered in markings linking all of this! Now how the hell can you tell me we don't have cult activity when we have almost over fifty dead bodies all connected to this covered in the same markings that we found in that book of cult practices and rites?”

       “Satanic cults are just a myth used by the media to make things look worse than they are and if you keep talking to them you're going to be doing just that!” Commissioner Anderson stood up from his desk. “Even if this is all connected where is your actual cult at?”

       “I don't know.”

       “Exactly, until you can bring me a real cult I can't do a goddamn thing about this. No more talking to the media about a cult.”

       “So warning people about this is a bad idea?”

       “Panicking the public is a very bad fucking idea. If you're so convinced this is all part of a cult then go find me a cult leader. Until then I don't want to hear any more about this bullshit.” Deacon grabbed his hat and coat, turned, and walked as calmly as he could back to his desk.

       “Matt. I need you to keep an eye on Deacon. He's been really deep in this crazy cult thing. I've seen a lot of good cops go over under stress like this.”

       “Deacon's one of the best we got, so I wouldn't worry too much about him.”

       “Well I do, last thing we need is another situation like the one they had up in Kingsport a few years back.”

       “What situation?”

       “It's nothing. Look.” Anderson leaned down, pulling a file from his desk. “Deacon may be onto something, but he's not stable right now. I want you to look into this lead on the Cult situation.”

       “Alright, but...”

       “Deacon's not to hear about it. Just go look around, find out it's nothing, and make me feel better. Alright?” Matt stood up, nearly spilling his coffee as he took the thin file from Anderson.

       “I'll get you a report by tomorrow.” Matt smiled, nodded, and left the office.

_______________________________________


       “...identified the majority of the remains, the oldest dating back to...”

click

       “...Fatally wounded the madman resulting in a fall...”

click

       “...sadly, no family has been found and she will reside in Rivas Sanitarium until...”

click

       “...resulting in five Black Dragon restaurants being closed down in five major...”

click

       “...Officer Cole was cleared of any wrong doing and received commendations for his work on the disturbing cases.”

click

       “ ...seriously, you can get more girth for...”

click

       Deacon shut off the tv. The last few weeks of his life had been bizarre to say the least. The last thing he needed was the Media shoving it down his throat. Even his mail was filled with unusual things. People sending him letters asking him to find their missing relatives, asking if devil cults were responsible for all of it, and news paper clippings of other weird cases from around the country. He had taken to saving them in a file now though. A morbid hobby. He ended up becoming the spooky detective he tried to avoid being for years, and it didn't bother him as much as he figured.

       He never noticed just how many strange things happened around the area of Ironside City. In 1842 when Ironside was founded several native tribes simply disappeared from the area. Soon after that a famed Archaeologist disappeared in the same area, leaving behind a journal detailing an attack by strange creatures dressed in tribal garb. In 1902 a blast leveled the Iron mill which gave ironside it's namesake sending debris over a 20 mile range. Strangely enough, the mill had been closed for repairs and there was nothing explosive still active in the building. Further investigation showed the explosion came from underground in a series of mines. There was no record of mining in the area, and the walls were coated in a reportedly black viscous sludge.

       Rivas Sanitarium, located about 20 miles outside of Ironside in an older city called “Grackle's Nest” was known for strange things. The founder's body (and head) were found in the buildings greenhouse. He had intended to hang himself from the roof, but the force of the drop, the length of the rope and his own weight all added up to result in decapitation. One of the women tending the garden when it happened claimed that he was still blinking when they made their way through the glass and debris. This was hours after finding his own wife brutally murdered. It was believed to have been committed by an inmate but the slashes, tears, and bites were all nearly animal in distinction.

       The tenement that the “Skinny Man” case was handled had it's share of history as well. More suicides had been cleaned out of that building than any other in a 50 mile radius. Over thirty missing persons cases had been reported near the building, about half of those may be attributed to the aforementioned case, however others remain unsolved. One of the suicides, a World War II Vet had claimed there was a strange creature that he in part brought back from Africa living in the vent system of the building was crawling out, killing people, and hiding away. They did find claw marks in the ducts though.

       Deacon sighed as he pulled himself away from the files and the blank television as he reluctantly crawled into bed. Sleep just got in the way of things.

________________________________________

       Deacon's phone rang, stirring him from his sleep. He rolled over and felt along his bed stand, sending his lamp falling to the ground. After a few obscenities he finally caught the phone. It was Angela. She was panicking. Haley had an episode that morning and she was back in the state's care for the moment. She was being kept at Rivas Mental Health Institute. Thankfully she would be allowed visitors. There was one unusual part of Angela's story. They took the page Deacon left with Haley.


       “She's doing fine now, but her morning was rough.” The tall woman said as she lead Deacon down the hallway. “She can see visitors now though. If you need anything, just call for me, I'll be right here.” She nodded in a pleasant fashion as she penned the door to the room.

       “Hi, Haley.” Deacon smiled. She looked up, still visibly shaken. “Is everything okay?” She shook her head.

       “I saw the things again this morning. I was looking at the page you gave me and suddenly there were these things crawling around.” Tears streamed down her face. Deacon sat next to her, taking her hand in his. “And then there was a man. He looked horrible. There was blood everyplace, and his jaw was missing. He was trying to say something, but I couldn't understand.”

       “What happened to the page?”

       “A man took it when they came to bring me here. I don't know who it was.”

       “Alright. Are you seeing anything now?” She shook her head and just leaned on Deacon. He met her years ago when they were in grief counseling together as kids. KOn a horrible summer day, Deacon had to drag his sister's body out of the family pond. Deacon didn't think it could get worse than that until he met Haley. She actually saw her dad killed, and a few people even figured she did it herself, including her absentee mother. Every so often she'd have episodes where her reality would break down and she would just see things. He didn't care if she did or not, the girl in front of him now, the one he grew up with, needed him. His cell phone again disturbed a moment. It was from the station.

       “I gotta take this.” He slowly got up and turned away, answering the phone. “Cole here. What? Where was he last seen? Really? I'm there right now actually. Alright. I'll poke around a bit. Keep trying his phone.”

       “What's wrong?” Deacon pocketed the phone.

       “One of the guys I work with is missing. He apparently had a lead on a case that brought him here and he hasn't been heard from since yesterday. Have you seen him? He's about 5'6, about 210...”

       “Brown hair, mustache, brown pants...”

       “Yeah...where did you see him?” Haley shook as she sat back down.

       "He was the man that...that I saw in my room.” Deacon looked confused for a moment before there was a knock at the door.

       “Is everything okay, Mr. Cole?”

       “Detective, actually. Can I have a word with you?”

       “Um...I think I should...”

       “Get your boss? That is a great idea, really. We have a missing cop who was last seen here and I need to know everything you guys know about it. Haley, I'm going to get on the horn and get you out of here, alright?” She nodded as Deacon leaned down and whispered to her. "I have a bad feeling about the pages they took, I'll try to find them though. Just take it easy when you get home, I'll call Angela tonight and get this all sorted out. He smiled at her briefly before he turned away and returned to his phone, waving the tall woman away to find her superior. Within minutes police were all over the place but there was no sign of Matt Hale. There was one lead though.

       “Detective Cole, correct?” A middle aged man approached him. He was middle eastern in origin, but with a non-regional accent. He had balded, but kept a fine salt and pepper beard. “My name is Dr. Ian Kadessah. I think I have some information that may help you.

       “Glad to hear it.”

       “This morning, when the young woman, Haley I believe was her name, was brought in one of our head doctors accompanied our employees that retrieved her. Upon arriving, he had in his hand a handful of papers that he claimed were her personal writings. Following that, he was encountered by a man who matches your description of Mr. Hale. The two left and I haven't heard from anyone since.”

       “The Doctors name?”

       “Dr. William Creed.” Deacon could almost feel himself being hit by his thoughts. “Was Mr.         Hale here to speak to him about his recent loss? It's always tragic when a family looses...”

       “Take me to his office, now!” Deacon turned and barked orders at several of the officers, even spouted off Creed's address from memory. He used to go to the house to hang out with Gauge as a kid. But his father always seemed normal. But this, Haley being picked up, the papers, Gauge's suicide, the markings. If it wasn't for the strange Skinny Man case and the Black Dragon thing, it'd be an open and shut case as far as Deacon figured.

       His office was heady with the aroma of leather and wood polish. Everything in the room was standard though. Deacon sat at Creed's chair, looking around the room.

       “You're trying to figure out where he hides things, aren't you?” Kadassah asked. Deacon glanced towards him, turning his chair more towards the entry, gaining a better perspective on where he could see but Kadassah wouldn't look. The desk was standard. Nothing on the planner, one of those green lamps you see in most places, pens, pencils, papers on incoming patients. The room was still fairly dark so Deacon reached for the lamp in order to get a better look at the papers.

Click

       Nothing. The light didn't turn on. Deacon inspected it. There was no bulb, but there was a roll of papers stuffed down into the hollow neck.

       “Jackpot.” Deacon unrolled them, and found exactly what he needed.

       One psych file for a man named Alexandre Warner including his release form signed by Dr. Creed. One psych file for Gauge Creed, clearing him for re-entry into society, signed two days before his disappearance. Photocopies of pages from the strange Rituals of Hali. Shares of partnership with a man named Aki Matsaharu of the Black Dragon restaurant and a key to a safety deposit box, the tag reading where it could be found. Dewy National Bank.

__________________________________________

       The box contained one thing. An old reel of film, secured in a tin. The station's projector, though in disrepair, was still good enough to work. Deacon sat down alone to watch the mysterious film.

       It started out with what looked like military protocol and the words “Cult of the Red Queen raid. Evidence. 11/15/52” The following images were horrific. Police invaded a dark, broken down home, finding numerous atrocities Bodies strewn about, all of them missing jaws and covered in strange carvings. The film continued as the police went further in. A gun fight breaks out, resulting in more death, the cultists being the only casualties. The police rush into a large room after breaking the door down to find a ceremony just like the one detailed on the paper in Gauge's rifle, with a large man in a tentacled mask tearing the jaw from the still living body of a captive. He lifts it as his followers all realize they've been caught. The police open fire, killing many, and finally a bullet strikes the head of the lead follower splintering the mask and the skull preventing any clear view of the leader, not that it mattered.

       As his head explodes it appears that a series of long, stringed, barbed veins or tendrils begin to flail about wildly where the head once was. Deacon stoped the reel, hoping to get a better glance. The film began to smell of smoke instantly, it wouldn't keep long before it melted. Deacon reached to start it again but something in his mind prevented him, something in the film prevented him.

       One of the faces turned and looked at him. Deacon stood in curious shock as it grinned. He blinked, and the face was gone, but the film started to melt. He yanked it free but it was already warped enough to prove useless. Deacon sat back down. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him, he would think to himself later that night. He needed sleep, but there wasn't time for that, Hale was in danger if he wasn't already dead.

       “Cole, you're not on this case, I already told you...” Anderson rushed in, furious about Deacon's actions, the blinds on the door window fluttering and slapping back as the door flew open.

       “Then fire me.” Deacon grabbed his hat and walked past him.

       “Where the hell are you going?”

       “I'm going to get your cop that you left out there to die.” Deacon continued walking, knowing seconds mattered now. Creed's house was on a large chunk of land just outside of town. He had two houses on the property but the smaller one was the only one used. The other was a former mansion fallen into disrepair after years of neglect.

_____________________________________

       Deacon arrived at the scene shortly after, the police had already barricaded the estate and were preparing to enter. The house itself seemed like the enemy, like it was decay in it's purest form. The paint was streaked with lines of mold and rain damage from years of solitude. Massive oak branches had grown into several of the windows on the top floor, forming warped, gnarled arms of the trees. It was like something was holding the rotting manor to the ground, tense, awaiting the day to move. Deacon took the safety off his Desert Eagle, there wouldn't be a need for that. The house itself wanted an enemy to dare approach it, and Deacon didn't mind taking that role. The humidity around the house was even worse than the smell of the molded wood. Oppressive, thick, and intimidating in a way that the police there would never really be able to explain. The house held dark secrets, hidden behind the spider's eye-like windows dotting the face of the mangled mansion.

       Deacon waved a group behind him, heading up the creaking, damp stairs to the wide porch. It was like stepping into somethings jaws. He nodded to one of the officers who prepared a battering ram, swinging it once into the twin doors, splintering the locks and ripping the handles free, sending the doors swinging open. In the distance, Deacon could hear strange chanting and smell fire. Controlled fire though, like a fireplace, or torch. He waved the men on, heading into the wide open chamber. The sound of his steps were suddenly interrupted by a new sound. Crunching. It took him a moment to get his flashlight ready, but as he shined it down, a part of him wished the batteries had died. The black and white marble floor was covered in a brown, cracking film. This was old blood.

       The chants grew louder as Deacon snapped back to attention. With weapons ready, a group of the police hurried up the sprawling stairway to the second floor to another set of double doors. Others scattered throughout the bottom floor. This revealed an even greater area with one final set of double doors at the end of a bottlenecked hallway. The walls were lined with strange paintings, things that made little to no sense, except one painting. Deacon was the only one it mattered to though. It was a bizarre drawing, like a woodcarving that would have been used during the Inquisition to illustrate what demons look like entering the body. Behind all of them stood a robed figure with a strangely "off" looking halo, holding what could only be called a black mass. As he finished his study of the horrific etching, he heard a low chant emanating from the far room. He approached slowly, waving the group behind him on as he leaned next to the door. It was them. Sure enough, the doors were locked and the voices were growing louder still.

       Deacon frantically beckoned the ram-men over to take down the double doors. It didn't take much to splinter the rotted, red painted doors, swinging what remained of them to the sides as they poured into the chamber. If the world was sepia-toned, it would have been the exact scene from the strange film. Deacon wouldn't let this cult leader get away with a pile of splinters and a bullet to the head, at least not until Deacon confirmed the identity. The cultists all turned and began to mutter to themselves, sucking in air in shock as their dark ritual was broken.

       Beneath the leader, his face covered in the horrific wood-carved mask, adorned in tentacles and strange mathematical or astrological symbols, and one eye-hole, was a butchered corpse. His chest ripped away, as if cut open and curled up and away like the skin on a clove of garlic. The leader held the dead man's jaw in his hands. Then he ripped it free, digging in hard with a pair of clawed gloves and held it high. He screamed something in words so strange they almost hurt to listen to, but the cultists responded to the act, sending them into a howling frenzy as they started to run towards the police force. The masked leader then turned and fled, giving Deacon but a glance at the second lower jaw hanging from a necklace around his neck.

               “It's not Matt.” Deacon thought as he yelled for the men to freeze, gun drawn on the lead cultist, the brief glance at the full face of the eviscerated man fresh in his mind. Deacon wasted no time. He opened fire, dropping one cultist, a larger man, maybe, and sending his body flying back into several of his brethren. The other police followed cue, firing at will. It wasn't till later that Deacon would find they did all in fact have weapons on them. He just saw a gleam of silver in ones hand before the action started. He barreled through the clot of robes, striking down the men before him with the short end of his "hand cannon" as he charged after the master of ceremonies.

       The gun fire continued as Deacon turned down a long corridor, the screams and howls of the red hooded men filling the hollow halls of the decayed manor, the sounds leading out towards the rooftop, like blood from an open vein. He stopped just before the stairs as the scent of human viscera struck him. It's hard odor to forget and it's not hard to finger. Deacon looked to his left, seeing the eviscerated torso of one Office Matt Hale, chest ripped open, jaw missing. Deacon lurched, his body begging to reveal the contents of his stomach as he leaned against the wall. Maybe it was the force that he hit the wall, maybe it was something else, but the head turned. Deacon couldn't help but look right into the milky, dead eyes of his partner. After the initial shock, Deacon was able to see something terribly wrong. The way the body was ripped open...

       “What the hell...Good god, Hale...” The damage to the torso was far beyond anything he'd ever seen before. The sheets of flesh resembling a blood covered flower freshly bloomed. Deacon stepped back, and returned to the chase. He would have to pay his respects later if he got everyone else out of this mess in one piece. He wondered if just maybe Haley did see his now-dead partner in a vision, maybe she was just as crazy as the rest. Maybe he was crazy.

       The madman stood on the ledge, gazing out towards the woods and screaming to the heavens holding a ruined page of The Rituals in one hand, and a human jaw in the other. He dropped the jaw to the wooden balcony, landing with a wet slap, then the page, before holding his hand up to the sky, twisting his bloodied silver claw in admiration of it's work that night, still chanting to himself in delight. Deacon shook his head slowly as he readied his weapon, stepping carefully across the broken pathway.

       “I suggest you turn around, at least you won't take a bullet in the back like a coward, and I'd rather get a look at if you I have to shoot you. Especially after what you did to your own son! Now turn around!” The Cultist just laughed as he turned and charged Deacon with startling speed and no worry of the broken wood beneath him. Deacon couldn't get a shot off in time, sending a stray bullet flying towards one of the dead oak trees, before the freak had rushed him, rolling them both towards the rooftop ledge. Deacon tried to twist the cultist away from him but he couldn't prevent the force from taking them both off the roof.

       With an amazing feat of self-preservation, Deacon managed to grab onto the ledge, but only tenuously with one hand. The other still had his gun, tightly clenched as before. His weight was doubled by the cultist who was holding him tightly, waiting to stabilize for a moment, to let Deacon get a grip before attempting to crawl up his body. Deacon tried to adjust himself, get into line for a shot before they both fell but before he could, he felt the cold steel finger tips latch to his face. Four fingers under, and the thumb over his jaw line, slowly digging in. If he fell, he'd rip Deacon's face off if Deacon was lucky. Deacon snarled as he wrapped his legs around the cultists body, striking his face with the butt of the gun, finally breaking the mask revealing one Dr. William Creed hiding under it, eyes looking just as dead as Matt's. The identity was confirmed, at least to Deacon, no need to worry about that now though.

       He could hear people under them, screaming as they saw the scene. Deacon struck Creed's nose, feeling it go to mush under the force of the blow as he felt his own fingers beginning to slip.

       Options:

       Let go, fall to the ground. Maybe survive. It's only 40 feet, and maybe you'll land on the cultist.

       Drop the gun, pull the two of you up, deal with the pain, and hope he doesn't rip your face off.       

       Shoot him. Either he'll clamp down or open his hands, but it'll stop him either way.

       Deacon pressed the gun point blank to Creed's eye socket. Creed smiled at Deacon and laughed.

       “Are you ready to meet the Red Queen, Deacon? She's waiting for you, through the looking glass...” Deacon's blood went to ice. The Skinny Man said something almost exactly like that. He felt the steel digging harder into his flesh as Creed laughed harder.

       It was time to end this. Deacon fired, the bullet passing through and clipping his own leg as Creed's head went to tomato paste. His hands opened and his arms flailed. Deacon finally unwrapped his legs and let the body fall. Something was wrong though. As the body fell, he could see the same strange flailing strands flying around where a head used to be. It struck the ground with backbreaking force. Deacon felt hands grab his now bloody hand and pull him up. He didn't take his eyes off of Creed's corpse though. It looked like something was moving down there, dragging away from the mangled body.

       Finally safe, he hobbled down the stairs to the entry. He had to see the body. They had already began cleaning up the fall though but one thing puzzled everyone. It looked like something came out of his chest when he hit the ground. The cavity was broken open and the red clay mud almost looked like something crawled away. Not possible though, that would be insane. He turned and picked up the page that was laying in a small pool of blood. He looked over it briefly and again noticed the bizarre symbol that had haunted him for days now. A brief chuckle overtook him as he pondered the strange phrase Haley had translated the symbol to mean. The same one that echoed through the strange old tome.

       “Huskwalker...”

       The moon sat on Ironside city. But it would rise again. Deacon thought this to himself as he sat on the steps of the house.

       “Detective Cole?” One of the cops walked up. “This came for you at the precinct." Deacon looked up and took the letter in his bandaged hand.


Dear Detective Cole,

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear --

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden gleam --
Life what is it but a dream?




       “What the hell is this?” Deacon's bloody fingers wrapped around the young officers lapels.

       “It came for you today, we're not sure who it was though.”

       “This is what the Skinny Man was saying when I shot him. It's Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carol. Only he and I knew about this."

       “Well it can't be him sir, he's dead, right?”

       “Yeah...yeah, you're right...I still have to see the coroner about this though, get this crap out of my head.” He let go as he slumped down to the steps of the ruined home.

       Deacon sat and thought. There was no way the Skinny Man was back. But the film, the cultists, it all looked exactly like what happened before.

               "Sir, maybe you should see the paramedics, you're looking pretty rough. Those are some nasty gashes..."

       “Maybe I am through the looking glass...” Deacon said to himself, not even hearing what the young cop said, leaving him behind as he started the lonely trip to his car.