The Curse Of The Moloch (2) He gabbled on and told of the frenzied screams ejected by the attacker. Again there was puzzlement in his words, when he was unable to explain the attacker's repeated screaming curses; the words, to him, expressed bewilderment to their meaning. He thought that the assailant to be a crazy lunatic, as he continual yelled frenetically during the beating of the woman. The senior tried repeatedly to jog his mind to remember the explanatory words. "Could only remember jest one thing he kept screamin' agin' an' agin'... jest this word... let me recollect.. . Wait a moment it be on th' tip of me tongue. .. Let me see... M. .M..Mo. ." Then the memory of the past incident cleared in his mind and he blurted out the word "MOLOCH". "MOLOCH", he repeated, "yeh thet's it, sure of it. "MOLOCH", funny word thet is, real funny. Don' know what it means... " The elder rambled on and mumbled disjointed phrases, "Picked a nice spot for his jollies... Th' streets about here are mighty still at night... nobody about... th' area's gonna be knocked down; we r' about th' last ones livin' here... Jest tryin' to find a right place an' then we git out." "Ain't it right love," related the elder, as he turned to the attention of his spouse whose lined face was etched with the thoughts of the past horror. She heard his words and showed her agreement with a simple nod of the head. "Y' askin if me good women saw it too? Sure did.. The ruckus with all th' shoutin' by thet man cud ov woken th' devil himself.. Don't mean my missus - good gal she is..." The excited senior told of how his everloving spouse, also woken by the noise, came to his side to have a look through the window. He explained when his wife witnessed the horror in the street, it caused her to have a fit of panic, coupled with finger pointing towards the ensuing incident, "Screamin' and pointin' with her finger at th' goings' on down in th' street. Shook her I did, my missus, y'know. A'feared th' bugger'll hear an' see us an' come after us. Don't want any trouble. No siree bob! Don' want any more trouble as ah 've 'nough of me own." The elder stopped for a moment in his rambling speechification, scratched his thinning hair, and stared at the detectives. His hoary head was slightly beaded with sweat, as he told of his efforts to calm his wife; The excited elder explained of the difficulty he had, and only by shaking her, managed to control her. Words continued, that told how he was able to reason with his spouse, and of his instructions to her to put in a 911 call to the police. "Th' missus waz sure carryin' on but did as I tole her t'do an' she ran t' th' hall were we kept th' phone... . Then I went back t' me perch at the' window and when ah looked again' down in th' street, th' murderin' bastid was a' gone... an' thet poor women lying still-like on thet wet sidewalk." The detective allowed a restful pause for the elder, as he slowly noted his worded account of the events of the murder. Then another question was fielded....and repeated.... "Yeh, ah' hear ya'! Y' asked If ah' kin describe him? Well, let me see. Didn't get a good look at his face...as all ah' saw ov' him was his back bent down over this por' women. Only his back with thet bloody stick in his hand goin' up an' down whackin' agin' an' agin' on thet por' woman's head. Thet's all. Yeh, all ah can spell out thet he was hefty and kinda tall. Looked like a bear all fitted up agin' th' cold...Real fierce like." He continued by stating that the attacker was bundled up in a heavy coat and that he was decked with a soldier-type hat with a rounded visor. He mention the chap's head was rather large, but was unable to give a description of the attacker's features due to the darkness of the hour. And as an afterthought he threw in a few opinionated phrases... "D'yah suppose that there fellow I'd spotted was thet killer who goes about bumpin' off them thar red-haired women? Read in th' papers thet th' feller knocked ov about four r' five of them poor critters durin' th' past few months r' so. Th' papers write very bad things about you boys in th' police. Calls yer detec'tive work might sloppy... Ah think one paper called you fellers 'boy scouts in blue'.. don' mean t' be insultin'. Well all ah kin say, y' better find thet murderous critter b'fore he does it agin'..." A glass of water was passed to the narrator, and, after finishing the refreshing coolness, he was questioned further.. "The time y's ask? Can't reckon the hour but t'was mighty late. Can remember thet th' rains had stopped... Let's see.. Went t' bed after th' late news at eleven. Ah think t'was jest when ah' had fallen asleep when I hear th' screamin'.. thet's all ah' kin tell. When y' talk with th' missus, maybe she'll know a bit more about th' time.." The questions to the woman were the same, and her hesitant answers were more or less similar in content to those of her husband. Time passed quickly and the investigation came to a close. The detective hurriedly checked his notes, and, finding satisfaction closed the notebook. Then the men of authority arranged their overcoats and straightened headgear as they readied themselves for their exit. A polite offer of thanks and apologies were offered, and then they quickly made their way out of the apartment.. ...and as the door opened, the dark spirits of the night whisked inside bringing the aura of menacing terror in the chill of the whispering winds. � � Chapter Two It was the hour of evil reserved for the Devil when the news of vicious murders hovered; all signed with the same memo. The Prince of Darkness chortled in his gall, and he rubbed his hands in glee as the printed pages featured its grisly accounts. The excited words on the radio broadcasting gruesome details, the pictured scenes on the television channels bringing the vile horror to the sight of the viewer added to his delight. Fear and terror were his poisonous offerings, and he served them to those who were threatened by his presence in the blackness of stalking death. The spirits of fear flew rapidly through the corridors of the city spreading their deep terror - a unknown sound, a unfamiliar sight, a whisper, a shout, a flash of a shadow in the darkened gloom of the night hours added to the fearful anticipation that coursed through the senses. Those that were in need of treading through the silent passages in the shaded evening hours continually looked sharply in their sight; their hearing keenly alert, as they made their vigilant and cautious way. All felt the deadly spirits of fear. The state of terror coursed through the metropolis. Women with the colour red in their hair felt its cold fibers, as they alone were the main sacrificial lambs of the stalking killer. The solitary creature, on her own and without the comfort of a companion, trusted the graces of the good Lord as she made her way to evening religious rights. Those in the limelight felt safe in an available taxi: Nurses on night duty were convoyed by offical authorities: The escorted ones trusted the strength of their mates when they made their way to evening revelery. But there were women, blinded by despair or drink, which wandered about in the dark nights totally oblivious to their safety. The demoniac apprehension of the night hours encroached on those who had no reason to fear. The man-of-the-house tightly enclosed him-self in the safety of his home, rarely venturing into the uninviting streets; the policeman on duty took caution, hand near his weapon; the taxi driver was wary to prospective passengers and at times drove off with an empty vehicle. But, there were those who trusted to their strength and to fate, and dared the emissaries of fear. The spirits of fear increased in the mind of those traversing the nightly passage; the sighted frightening apparitions of the consorts of terror appeared to them in various guises in the darkening hours. The ghostly presence was at times sighted coursing the empty streets; the quiet of hour was, at times, broken by the haunted sound of following weary footfalls. A quick turn of the head and the widened eyes of the frightened searched out the gloom. Nothing in sight... The now trembling limbs of the innocent trod stealthily the cold passages. Cautiously, cautiously ... Then the sound of the slinky footsteps was heard again... coming closer, closer... A pause, a silent scream as the terrified being froze in stance, hiding in the depth of the shadows. Closer, closer drummed the beat of the footsteps... Then the ghostly apparition appeared. Either an extended dirty hand was seen in supplication, or it was heard by a whining beckoning call in the guise of sexual offering by a slatternly dressed harlot. The ugly sight of a dishevelled, discarded human derelict, or pictured by a garishly adourned and painted slut, added to the shivers of icy terror. Coins were quickly offered from fumbling hands, or negative answers were called out by the fearful as they hurried away. A sacrificial lamb was always found and plucked from the flowing stream, be it a woman that took care or one who was oblivious to the nightly terror. She suffered cruelly the merciless hand of a 'Serial Killer'. And her blungeoned body, with the signs of a cruel punishment on the red of the hair, was found crumbled and discarded the next morning. Five women in all were recorded as victims of this inhumane killer, perhaps others. No plausible reason for the heinous crimes; no clues to the identity of the cruel murderer were in evidence. Only a strange word that was shouted over and over in the course of the murderous acts - "MOLOCH" - a word taken from the ancient past. The aura of death still lingered in the vapours in the cold air of the night. Seven days passed, maybe longer. Then, without warning, the still of the night was again disturbed by menacing forces. The sound of the boom of a taut-drum and the blare of a primal horn was whis-pered in the flow of the winds; it signalled in its beating cadence the coming of the fire-god, the Moloch. The pagan god with his emissaries of shadow spirits and winged demons wafted silently and unseen through the mysteries of the night as they searched for the sacrificial lamb. They raced swifly on the flowing air through the darkened passages of the silent city leaving behind slight traces on the damping mist of the murky night. Through their cunning eyes they saw the coming of the damnation of the hunt that will bring the chosen one to the fiery pit of sacrifice. � � � Chapter Three The misshapen shadow in the sinister guise of a man danced slowly on the darkened buildings; up and down the stealthy shadow played on the deserted structures as it followed the thickset man who crept in the quiet of the lonely hours of the night. The shadow spread when the furtive stalker quickly crossed a debris-strewn alley then narrowed as it passed. The ghostly shape paused in its macabre dancing as its partner grasped the collar of his heavy coat; pausing to gulp air through his sickly lungs. The shadow repeatedly bowed and lifted its form as the stalker agonized over the pain. His chest heaved as the constricted passage wheezed and swallowed grasping pockets of air. Slowly the breathing returned to its normal pulse. Then again the shadow of the man resumed its demoniac dancing on the worn brickwork facades. Through the still corridors of the meandering streets and alleys, cold intermittent winds blew their eerie notes in cadence with the stalking shadow. The winds stirred up bits of paper, which joined their ghostly images to the silent creeping shadow on the walls. The fluttering attendants danced sprightly around the darkened spirit of the slowly moving figure; they touched lightly the ghostly shadow and then retreated from its grasp. Up and down the delicate images of the paper danced flightily on the brickwork of the worn buildings casting a lurid tableau; their flickering movements, orchestrated by the strength of the varying winds, winged their shadowy outlines to a haunting rhythm. Dimly lit street lamps cast their gloomy light along the throrough-fares. Sudddenly, from a deserted alley, yellowish eyes mirrored the glint of the light, then another, and another. The yellow shining points flickered to the right, then to the left. A sharp angry hissing sound was spitted through the still air; a furious snarl was heard, followed by short fierce caterwauling. Within moments the demoniac noise abated and the eerie silence of the night returned to the darkened streets. Another pause as the ghostly silhoutte straightened its contorted limbs; then melted into a shadow casted by a tall building. The cautious stalker was disturbed by a flash of brilliance from a partly curtained window that beamed a faded streak of light onto the quiet street. The momentary reflection of light revealed his prey, namely a frumpish woman in her middle years making a tottery way through the dark of the night. Her stout figure was bundled in the warmth of her clothing with her head crowned with a decorative kerchief that partially covered her shock of poorly rinsed reddish hair. The hesitant footfalls of her feet, encased in high-heeled shoes, stumbled haltingly as the woman made her way through the deserted streets; the unsteady clicking of her heels greatly disturbed the silence of the hour with the foulness of its sound. Suddenly she stopped and, in the middle of the still passage, the unsteady figure pirouetted in a parody of a dance, accompanied by the notes of her wavering off-tune voice. A dim street lamp spotlighted her erratic performance and cast the wavering shadow as her partner. "Lah ti dah, lah ti dah," she sang to a tune remembered from the past. "Lah ti dah," she sang in a slurred voice as she raised her arms to conduct the rendering of the melody known to her from the past. A mis-step as the woman tripped over her erratic feet; bending and weaving with arms outstretched she slowly caught her balance. A loud harsh laughter was ejected from her rasping throat as the figure, upright and slightly unsteady, straightened herself. Then marking her footfalls carefully step by step, the inebriate woman continued her meandering through the murky and still streets. As she stumbled along, bobbing and weaving, one of her unsteady feet tripped over a discarded flattened tin can and again the woman's stout legs interwined with each other. Her body wavered erratically as she attempted to catch her balance. The lush floundered on the irregular movement of her feet as she tried to reach the safety of a nearby building. With wavering arms and rubbery legs the woman rambled towards the brickworks; her hands grasped the coarsness of the bricks feeling its steadiness. "Whewee!" she slurred, "Thash was a close one..." And laughingly she added a loud belch as an afterthought. The alert stalker, hidden slightly in the dark recesses of a building, watched the movements of the drunken figure. The woman was unknown to him; she was only linked to his sight and memory through her streaked reddish hair, the supposed same red hair that crowned the head of his feared haunting, a Miz' Jezebel, his cursed and avenging mother. The woman, to him, was a reminder of the living form of his late mother thought to be rotting in the deep earth. The sight of the resurrected apparition increased the torment of hate that raced through his demented mind, "D-Damn ye, d-damn ye," he cursed inwardly, directing the damnation of the harsh words towards the unsteady hussy whose appearance tormented his very being. His rambling thoughts continued in the memory of the past. It was that she-devil, Miz' Jezebel, his mother, who had, time and time again, cursed and harassed him throughout his life with the fear of damnation in the tortures of the hell-fire. He had to suffer the torment of her damnation and retribution that was vented for her spiteful lips. Her wrathful words constantly spoke about his supposed sins, which in her eyes was committed through the evil direction of the devil himself. Anger coursed his mind as remembered his mother's vehement tongue as it cursed his so-called errant ways. She constantly talked of the fierce retribution of the fierce sacrificial pit of the fire god, the Moloch that would result from his sinning actions. Yet, it was only through his sinful act of carrying out an act of wrongful retribution that he feared the burning pit of damnation. Through a fit of demented rage he had thrown the living body of Miz' Jezebel into a destructive conflagration that destroyed her corrupted existence and all that she possessed. He could not understand that, through this act, his mother's soul was carried away forever to the keeping of the Lord or of the devil, never to return. But the dementia of the crazed man only saw the mocking image in front of his eyes as the return of his haunting mother, and not a harmless creature that enjoyed the revelery of the liquid spirits of the bottle. Time and time again he had seen her devilish and fearful shadow wafting through the darkened and forebidding streets; an avenging apparition that continued to haunt him with its presence. Each time there was the feverish hunt to commit the final and lasting retribub tion upon Miz' Jezebel, the feared form of his mother. The stalker shivered as he remembered the past miserable nightly coursings through the cold and gloomy streets. He had repeatedly overwhelmed the cursed phantom and rained blow after blow on her red haired skull, sending her back to the foul depths of the outer world. Now again the threatening spirit reappeared, haunting him again with the threats of the sacrificial fires of eternal hell. Evil shadow spirits and sinister demons in the guise of damnation cast their foulness through the demented mind of the crazed man. They flew about in the tattered imagination of his condemning guilt, taunting him with their sight. The guilty figure's thoughts revolved and it depicted the foul hell fires of the depths of nether world; from the deep recess of his mind he pictured the mire of hell and the sight of the devil grinning in all his wickedness. The poisoning plague of madness overflowed, and in a deadly rage the crazed figure ran towards his prey. He quickly rose above the haunted apparition; his shadow inter-twined in hers; the woman turned slightly at the black shape that hovered over her. Deep fear was etched on her intoxicated features as her watery eyes glared at the menacing figure. Before she could act or call out, the hefty man lifted a thick cudgel, and, with a fierce rage, slammed the cruel weapon on her head. Again and again he beat upon the red of her hair. "Y-You'll not s-send me t' th' 'Moloch'. Y-you'll not m-make me burn, " the demented voice screamed. At the first blow the stunned woman let out a long howl of pain and fear. But her diminishing voice was quickly blanketed with the insane screams of her attacker that was repeated over and over, as each crushing blow beat their rhythm of cruel death on her fading reddish hair, "Moloch, Moloch, y'll not t-take me t' thet devil!!" With a desperate effort the pitiful creature, damned for the colour of her hair, pulled her hands from the wall and tried to cover her battered head from further blows. Her actions from an unsteady body lead her to be beaten to the cold pavement. The woman uttered not a sound as she slid onto the dirt of the street, enveloped in the throes of death... the fading red of her hair enriched by the flowing scarlet of her blood. The hefty man ceased in the cruel beating on the head of the un-fortunate creature and the shouting of his foul curses against her being. The breath of his diseased throat gasped the gulps of needed air. He knew that his devilish work was completed as he surveyed the carnage of his muderous act. A slight grimace was etched on his thick lips that showed satisfication of the final retribution that had sent the cruel soul of his mother back again to the confines of the devil and her corrupt flesh to the god of fire, the Moloch. A final curse from his fleshy lips was flung at the beaten and bloody corpse as the stalker turned and walked away; the sound of his weighty footfalls slowly diminished in the still passages of the night. � � Chapter Four The haunted man's early life was centered on a small settlement set in a hollow carved from the nearby hills; its thin clayey soil covered thick seams of buried coal. The scraggy layer was dotted with dilapitated shotgun shacks that held precariously to the hard packed earth. Coal was the life and bread of the area. Its foul breath smoked through chimneys of the nearby colliery; its corruption tainted the air and blackened the water that flowed throughout the high valley. Its signs were everywhere from the coal wagons lining the rail tracks, to the seemingly endless conveyor belts that brought the bitumen from the depths, to the nearby ever-growing slag heaps. It was marked on the coal dusted bodies of those who dug in the pits, the greying laundry on the lines to the brown stained leaves of the struggling plants and trees. It was a kingdom ruled through the believing words of the Good Book, that in its prophetic words, tried to direct the good folk of the community in the hollow to the path of righteousness. The time worn pages showed the way and those who strayed were told of the fierce retribution that awaits them. "Thou shalt not, and if so, the punishing eternal curse of damnation is one's just reward," the pious ones cried out reverently.
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