Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream (34 page)

"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" the bloody message above her head read cryptically.

"My God, my God," I translated, "why hast thou forsaken me?" I felt like asking the same question of the Creator.

Bloody footprints ran from the edge of the bed all the way to the open front door, marking the path that the assassin had taken. I thought about giving chase, and then decided against it. I still had Jessica's body to tend to.

As fate would have it, I didn't have to do anything once I returned to the bedroom. Jessica's weight had been too much for the small nails, and her flesh had torn under the strain like cheap tissue paper. There she was, lying on the bed, her blank eyes staring up at unseen heaven, her silent mouth voicing the very words that the ceramic Christ had written in his rage: "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?"

Knowing I would have to make this believable for the police, I began breaking windows, smashing vases, destroying whatever I could find in an attempt to make it look like robbery. After I had obliterated the china in the kitchen and strewn the entire contents of the refrigerator across the shiny linoleum, I took one of the knives from our cutlery drawer and began slashing myself. Above all else, I had to make it look like someone else besides the Christ had been in the house. After all, who in their right mind would have believed that a three-foot tall ceramic Messiah in a fit of rage would have been the culprit?

The police, as could be expected, were immediately suspicious. However, they didn't have any real reason to suspect me in the murder of my wife. The self-inflicted cuts and gashes helped convince them that someone else was responsible. Still, I knew they would be watching me.

Once I finished making my statement and answering the detective's questions, I knew that I had to find the crucified Nazarene who had murdered my wife in cold blood. After all, if every man on the face of the earth was going to be judged for his sins, I couldn't understand why this plaster messiah should be any different. The only problem with this vigilante scheme of mine was the fact that I had absolutely no idea where to begin looking.

I scoured the streets, looking for anything strange, listening for screaming, hoping to hear tragedy manifest itself as a cry for help. But the city was quiet. I went home feeling dejected and miserable. It didn't help that Jessica wasn't there waiting on me. Despite the name, it certainly hadn't been a Good Friday for me.

I didn't even try to sleep any more. I knew somehow that the significance of the upcoming holiday had something to do with what had happened and I immediately began reading everything I could find about Easter and the crucifixion. As it turned out, I knew just about all there was to know. Jesus was crucified on Good Friday and rose three days later. Easter is the holiday that recognizes Christ's resurrection from the dead.

I thought about this and wondered why a ceramic replica of the savior would tear himself down from his cross and murder my wife. Maybe this Nazarene didn't want to die for the sins of the world. Maybe this one had a more selfish motive.

Fortunately, I happened upon a story outlining the murder of a young priest named Father Daniel in the morning paper. Although the report didn't say as much, there was mention of a cryptic message being left at the scene of the crime. I couldn't help but think that there was a connection and realized that this might be the starting point I had been looking for.

Although I knew it was a risk, I snuck under the police tape at St. Peter's. To my horror, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani," had been smeared in blood on the old oak lectern at the head of the church. Yet, instead of reassuring me that I was on the right track, the message was a foreboding omen that revealed the lengths this plaster Christ would go to in order to be heard.

I called a friend of mine, Philip, who is a reporter at the local newspaper to inquire about Father Daniel's murder. I hated to lie to my journalist buddy, but I did anyway, telling him that the priest and I had become good friends since moving to the city. Begrudgingly and only because he knew me, Phil gave me a few sketchy details about the estimated time of death, the known suspects, and police leads. But he knew that I was after more than that, and after badgering him over the phone for five minutes, he eventually told me the way that Father Daniel had been killed. Personally, after everything I had seen and experienced, I would have guessed crucifixion as the method of death, but Philip said differently. Apparently each and every bone in the young priest's body had been shattered like glass. He had been beaten to death with a hammer.

(This is my body which is broken for you. Do this is remembrance of me.)

As it stood now, nothing save for a word from God Himself would stop the renegade savior.

When the next priest was found in the early hours of the evening by a vagrant who had stumbled into the open church in search of some air conditioning, there was more than the standard, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" This time, it took a police scanner and a little sneaking around to hear about the message. In addition to the ceramic savior's latest entreaties to God, there was also a scripture reference from the book of Luke. I immediately recognized it as a story I had heard when my grandmother used to take me to Sunday School. It was the parable of the lost sheep.

"What man of you," Jesus spoke from the scriptures, "having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost."

It was at that moment that I felt I truly understood the statue's motivations. Not only was it angry because it believed that God had forsaken it there on that ceramic cross but also because it felt like the Master should have been out looking for it. That led to the motivations for the killings. If God wasn't going to search for his wayward son, then it was going to spill enough of His servants' blood to draw some attention. After all, that was how they did things in the Old Testament, slashing the throat of a lamb to garner the notice of the Almighty.

As it turned out in the case of Father Steven, the ceramic Christ had attempted his first miracle. The basins in the church where the holy water was kept had been filled with wine in some symbolic bid to turn the former into the latter. In an even worse turn, the empty glass bottle had then been smashed and the broken end used to slash the aging priest's throat. Yet, the miracles had stopped at turning water into wine. Unlike Lazarus, there would be no resurrection for Father Steven.

In my mind I kept thinking that the only way this mess would end would be with a message from God. And then it hit me. Although it seemed like a sketchy plan at best, I suddenly thought I knew of a way to lure the confused messiah out into the open and stop the killings for good.

To anyone who read it, the flier would seem vague and mysterious at best. But the message wasn't just meant for anyone. For the sake of the remaining priests in the city, I only hoped the plaster Christ would see it and recognize what it meant. Undoubtedly, it was a lot of trouble to go around to every church, temple, and synagogue in the city, posting fliers in conspicuous places. Yet, I was betting that the effort would pay off. Today, after all, was Easter. The replica would be sure to be out and about, if for no other reason than to show he was very much alive and well.

"And lo," the flier read, "I am with you always, even unto the end of the age." It was signed Jehovah. My address was listed at the bottom.

When I finally made it home, it was a few hours before Easter sunrise. The sky was still dark with only a hint of stars, and the moon was pale and milky like a death omen. I knew, given the messiah's penchant for church killings, that it would see the flier I had posted and be here before daylight. That was why I had to hurry up and get ready. It seemed foolhardy, I know, but I made certain that all doors and windows were unlocked and left ajar an inch or so to provide for easy access. After all, the prodigal son was about to return home, despite his crimes, and I had to make certain that his welcome was a warm one.

As I waited, the only weapon that felt comfortable in my hands was the carpenter's hammer that I sometimes used for odd jobs around the house. And as I thought about the origins of the killer that was even now approaching my house from the west, I couldn't help but think that my choice of defense was somewhat ironic. Not only had Jesus grown up with a father who was particularly handy with a hammer, but the Roman soldiers had used a hammer to nail him to the cross. Of the two, I pictured myself more as a Centurion, bent on putting this murderer back where he belonged. And for a little while that seemed to help my state of mind. But only until I heard the sound of something shattering in the silent night.

Gripping the hammer tightly in my hand, I ran toward the source of the noise. It sounded like it had come from the living room. Once there, I saw that the lamp had been overturned, shattering hard against the ceramic tile.

"Eloi," the word in the window read like a prophecy.

Hurriedly, I began to run through every room, locking all conceivable exits in an attempt to keep the murderer trapped inside the walls of my house. Above all else, I couldn't afford to let him escape, especially after the way he had destroyed my life and taken Jessica's in a fit of jealous rage. Although I knew I might run into the plaster messiah and be forced into confrontation, I took the risk of running back through the house to double check all the exits. That was when I realized that I had forgotten the garage door. This slip-up could have actually proved disastrous, but in reality it gave me the chance to exact a proper sort of revenge for Jessica's death.

I had bought the bag of sixteen-penny nails that lay beside the garage steps about a week earlier with the intention of doing a few repairs around the house, and as far as I could tell, nothing had changed since then. There were simply a few things that needed to be nailed to the wall, foremost among them being the Christ who had come down from his cross.

Duly armed, I shut the door behind me and listened for any sound that might betray Jessica's killer. That was when I heard the dial tone of a phone buzzing like a grounded insect in the living room. Hastily, I ran toward the receiver, putting it to my ear and then slamming it down hard as I heard the sirens approaching in the distance. Suddenly, I knew what had happened. Nails had been driven into Jessica's hands and feet, and here I was holding a hammer.

But I had little time to contemplate this. No sooner had I begun to run frantically in search of the crucified than I felt the deep anguish of something sharp piercing my side. Although the pain made my vision a little blurry, I could see well enough to notice the screwdriver jutting out of my side like a Centurion's spear. And what was more, it had been driven in up to the hilt.

When I actually laid eyes on the Christ, it was hard to believe that he was capable of such strength. Just looking at him was like looking at a ghost, pale and haggard from blood loss and fatigue. In retrospect, however, I suppose I didn't look much better than he did. The blood was rushing from my side in crimson spurts, and I felt dizzy. Yet that didn't stop me from remembering the way Jessica had died and attacking with all the rage I could muster.

The first blow from the hammer cracked the skull of the plaster messiah in several places, eliciting what I thought was a shrill cry from the crucified. Then, with the murderer incapacitated, I set out to finish what should have been finished on Friday. Using the sixteen-penny nails, I crucified the silent Christ once more. That was when I realized that the ceramic Jesus hadn't screamed. Those were sirens that I had heard. Yet, I realized it too late, as I heard the front door being broken down.

The policemen aimed their guns and ordered me to drop the hammer which I did willingly. The Christ looked down at me, his plaster skull cracked in several distinct places; and for a brief moment, he smiled at me sardonically before the pain in his hands and feet became too much to bear. Without wasting any time, the arresting officer quickly snapped the cuffs on my wrists, and read me my rights as dictated by Miranda. And the plaster Christ wriggled against the nails, cursing his fate and me for putting him back where he belonged.

The police were insistent on getting me out of the house and into custody as soon as possible. But I resisted until I was convinced that the ceramic messiah wouldn't grow tired of his destiny again and come down. Yet, when a chunk of his fractured skull fell to the ground and turned to dust, I relented and let them lead me away. It was only as I was being loaded into the ambulance that I crumbled beneath the enormous pressure of the situation, and having nowhere else to turn, said the only thing that came to mind.

"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?"

Nobody else knew what I was talking about. But I'm sure if the messiah had been there, he could have sympathized.

JASON BRANNON

grew up reading Richard Laymon novels, Ray Bradbury short stories, and anything by Lovecraft he could get his hands on. He is the author of over 100 published short stories, four short story collections, two novels, and two chapbooks. His writing has appeared in such diverse publications as Dark Realms, The Edge, Wicked Hollow, Black Petals and Dark Karma. He is also scheduled to have fiction appear in Hour of Pain, Fangoria Frightful Fiction, Bible Black, AlienSkin, Circus, Vicious Shivers, and The Best of Horrorfind II. When not writing or attending to his duties as editor of The Haunted or as a book reviewer for SpecFicWorld, Jason can sometimes be found lurking in one of the dark corners of his webpage at www.angelfire.com/rant/puzzles/

May Day traditionally embodies the return to life and the planting of crops. Originally known as Beltane by the Anglo-Saxons, or Florialia by the Romans, this holiday is the most festive in some cultures. "Spring Fever" has long been celebrated by couples and communities alike in the hopes of fertility in the fields as well as the home.