"Strange . . . " Samwell said, placing a cover over the dead body. "That's the sixth one this month." he lit up his tobacco and took a minute to calm down. " . . . and all the same way. Body's pierced by what seems like spikes . . . "
"No precision," the man before him said. "Same spots, every time . . . it is the work of an Iron Maiden."
John Zatara sat on the stage, and examined the internal wounds. As Samwell began talking to his deputies, the man placed his hand on the man, and closed his eyes.
In a second, he let go, and turned to the gentlemen.
"Thank you gentlemen, you have been a great help to investigating this murders . . . it's been ruining my stage act for so long, I don't know what I should do about it but solve it myself . . . "
Samwell turned to the stage magician and laughed. "Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about the murders, Zatara. We'll take care of the problems . . . why don't you go to your room?"
Zatara smiled, and turned to the door. "Yes, I'll do that . . . it seems I've already gotten all I need here."
The Sandman leapt above the hotel, and stared into the skylight. The chalk marked the latest victim's spot, where she was found. This is the place, Wesley thought, silently opening the window hatch. He crept in, and landed inches away from the markings.
No blood . . . he thought, as he traced the marked floor. So the victim has been dead for quite some time till they found the body. He turned to the backstage, and entered through the curtains.
"What's this?" he uttered, eyeing the steel sarcophagus on the wall.
"Although the Harlington Hotel is quite a luxury bid, there are many secrets in this hotel that no one knows about," Zatara said to head piece of Leonardo da Vinci, mixing the potions in his hands. The silence of the bust was but a deception to all, as Zatara used it to channel to another realm.
The other side.
"Take one, for example, the wounds. It had a brilliant aura. It must be an enchanted Iron Maiden then," Zatara stood up and placed the bust back into his closet. "Thanks, Mortimer, it was nice talking to you, but I have a return engagement to go to . . . and hopefully some poor fool won't fall prey to that torture box . . . after all, it's all because of me."
Zatara grabbed his coat, and placed on his hat. He opened the door, pausing suddenly, as the feeling of dread began to make its way across him. "Maybe . . . I'm too late."
Amazing . . . Wesley thought, barely touching the steel. An Iron Maiden, isn't it? What's it doing here? Suddenly, a hand crept out of the shadows and pulled him back. "What . . . !?!"
Wesley grabbed the hand, and shoved the man by the side. "Oh . . . Inspector . . . it's you."
Ian Samwell stared onto the Sandman staring at him above, and groaned. "You again . . . geez, when does an enforcer of the law take a break from you?" Wesley helped him up, and he brushed the dust aside. "Huh . . . ?" Ian stammered, as the light of the steel Iron Maiden flickered in his eyes.
"It's an Iron Maiden, Samwell. An instrument of torture. How could it get here . . . "
"Well . . . there's a magician who's working here now . . . the name's Zatara."
"Zatara . . . " Wesley paused, as he pressed his fingers on the metal. "Could he be behind the murders?"
Suddenly, the Iron Maiden began rattling, as if its rage began to build to a crescendo. Wesley pulled Samwell back, as it's chest flew open, revealing the spikes hidden within it.
Zzzzzaaaaattttttaaaaaaaaarrraaaa!!!
"That is not good," Zatara said, appearing from the other side of the stage. The possessed Iron Maiden turned to the voice, enraged at the face of the magician.
Zzzzzaaaaattttttaaaaaaaaarrraaaa!!!
"What is wrong? Are you enraged?" he said, as the Sandman crawled back to his feet. Now! Wesley grabbed Iron Maiden from behind, and the crashed to the cemented floor. Suddenly, the torture box flew up, and Wesley crashed into a wooden box. What's this? he grabbed the antique doll, examining it. Zatara came to his side, and held on to the doll. "Actually, I was going for this," he said, as he and Wesley began receiving vibrations of psychic power surged through their body. "Yes, this is what she was looking for . . . "
Zzzzzaaaaattttttaaaaaaaaarrraaaa!!!
At that moment, the Iron Maiden chose to leap to Samwell, spikes open. It crashed, yet missed, as he dodged and crashed into the side of some soft cushions.
"Is this what you want?" Zatara yelled to the Iron Maiden, as it then turned to face him. He lifted the doll, and threw it at the contraption. Suddenly, arms broke through the metal, and caught the doll in mid-air. Wesley saw it, as a spirit of a little girl held the doll in her hands, and disappeared into the air.
" . . . What was that?"
Zatara turned to him, as he saw the brilliant dust fall to the earth. " . . . she died during the colonization period. When I came here five years ago, I made a promise to her." He pressed his hands towards the dust and it disappeared into his hands. "I would find her doll. I did . . . however it took me a long time, and she thought I forgot."
Wesley stared into the air, where the girl disappeared, then turned back to Zatara. " . . . by the time you came back, she remembered, and grew angry with rage," Wesley deducted, and Zatara smiled.
" . . . yes, and the killings were the result. I'm sorry."
Samwell turned to the man, finally getting up from the debris. "Well, how am I supposed to explain this?"
Zatara brought his hand out, and suddenly, a shower of light flickered across the stage. And in an instant, the magician was gone. The Sandman and Samwell were left alone, suddenly startled.
Then, he noticed the note in his hand. He examined the paper then turned it upside down. And smiled.
.t'nod uoY
"What are we going to do now?" Samwell said, as the Sandman disappeared into the shadows.
"You don't," he said, voice fading into the distant. "I have a feeling we must leave this to the man to decide."
Wake the Dead
by JM de Joya
"Poor Sir Hillendale," Dian sighed as the coffin was sealed from inside the mausoleum, the crowd of relatives and friends leaving him at peace. Dian Belmont, her hair dark brown, was beside her childhood friend, Wesley Dodds. Both knew Sir Albertus Hillendale well. But the circumstance of his death did not exactly match with what they knew.
"So why would he die of a severe heart attack? The last time we met him, he was exactly in perfect condition of health," Wesley said, as they left the mausoleum and shut the door behind.
"I don't know. It's a mystery," Dian mumbled. "It's quite a shame though."
They walked towards the limousine, until the figure of a middle-aged woman and her slave were in view. Both of them knew who these two were; Emilia Hillendale, the widow of Sir Hillendale; and N'uabe, their recently "purchased" African slave. "I see you're taking this well, Emilia," Wesley said, as he opened the door of the car for Dian. "Who inherits the Hillendale fortune now?"
"I-I don't know," Emilia said, stammering. "I promised Albertus that I would donate a large sum of it to the people who need it most here in Georgia, but that much has disappeared when he died."
"I see."
Wesley than noticed the straw doll N'uabe was holding, and examined it. The slave hesitated, but in the end lent it to Wes. "Hmm . . . it looks a lot like Albertus, if you ask me," Wesley whispered to Dian. "With a cute hat even." Suddenly, Wesley's head spun around, visions beginning to pry his mind open.
. . . something tossed aside . . . something shines.
a medallion? . . . witch doctor, screaming . . . someone rises.
folded paper . . . smoke and fire . . . dark magic . . . beneath the apple tree.
"My people," N'uabe suddenly said, garnering the investor's attention. "Don't mind N'uabe, Wesley. She probably misses her savage tribe back home." Wesley returned the doll to N'uabe, who placed close to her heart. Suddenly, there was a unearthly moan from the mausoleum, and the three (excluding N'uabe) turned their attention to it.
"A-albertus?" Emilia asked, stammering as the wind died down. Wesley motioned steadily forward, keeping his footing silent to ears. He slowly placed his hand on the handle, a creaking sound that could've been heard. Through the small gap in the door, Wesley couldn't believe what he was witnessing. The coffin lid was pushed aside, and the tomb was empty. The body of Albertus Hillendale was leaning on the side, like a rag doll. Wesley gently closed the door, certain that something foul was in his midst.
2 hours after dusk. Emilia Hillendale had invited the Wesley and Dian for a festival dinner of the slaves, to worship their god. "Honestly," Emilia uttered, stroking her cat. "It is quite sacrilegious for me to worship any other god than the Lord."
"Everyone's different," Wesley replied, taking a piece of the roasted pork into his mouth. "Long ago, our ancestors worshiped the Morrigan. The Norse worshiped Odin and his Asgard. Why, it is up to the basis that Japan was in turmoil during its Meiji Era for its Pagan and Buddhist cults."
"Very well, Wesley, if you say so."
The bonfire blazed into an inferno, as the men and women danced and chanted in their ancient tongue, smoke seeming to shape like a face. Dian herself, amused, was clapping to the beat of the drums. Wesley smiled, while folding an origami piece of a bird. "We all fly different ways, Emilia."
Suddenly, he dropped the piece of folded paper, as the slave men brought down a corpse of their own kin, and placed it on the ground. The elder of theirs grasped the medallion, and screamed. Suddenly, Dian was silent. Emilia was still.
And Wesley. He was watching.
The corpse was beginning to tingle with heat. Another scream from the elder, who placed the medallion on the neck of the dead, brought the man back to life. All the slaves began to rejoice, celebrating their god's return to earth in the form of the recent dead.
" . . . voodoo," Dian muttered, as the possessed man began to walk towards the three. "I never thought it'd exist . . . "
Soon the man was before them, and the elder was showing him to Emilia and Dian. He was naked, Wesley knew, and was probably stung to death by bees, since the marks all over his body were evident. The dead hand reached out to Dian's face, who didn't move, petrified at the sight alone. She felt its cold hands touching her, trying to bring life to her. Then it backed away, dancing with one of the slave women.
"Dian, are you okay?" Wesley asked, shaking Dian back to reality. Dian sighed. "H-he was so c-cold," she stammered. "Like he wasn't even alive . . . "
"They use the memories and emotions of the dead, and manipulate them through a enchanted item that represents the dead," Wesley said. "That's why . . . wait a minute . . . "
"What's wrong?" The two ladies turned to him, as he pondered quietly. " . . . Dian, the doll we saw awhile ago . . . Looked exactly like . . . "
"Albertus, of course," Dian exclaimed. "You said so yourself. Why?"
"To each his own." Wesley grumbled, as he, the Sandman, entered the black steel gates of the cemetery, walking past tombstone after tombstone, heading towards the Hillendale mausoleum. He knew that there were spirits abound, those who would not care what would happen to a frail human. But he was the Sandman. He had to go on.
From afar, he heard the howling and chanting one voice, a woman's voice. Molding with the shadows abound him, Wesley could see through the tinted glass of his gas mask N'uabe, with the doll and the corpse of Albertus Hillendale. She had a cauldron, which emitted fumes of green smoke. Chanting in her tongue, N'uabe smiled once the body began to stand up straight, foot by foot moving across the field of tombstones. "Woman," the Sandman proclaimed, appearing behind her back. "I am the Lord of Dreams, who has come for justice for the dreams of the dead that you have disturbed" Startled, she dropped the doll into the cauldron, and called the corpse. But soon, the Sandman realized, it was the corpse she called . Hands (skeletal or not) began to dig its way from the ground, as the mystery man could hear the moans and creaks of joints long not used. Lunging for N'uabe, the vigilante fell on top of her, spraying the gas gun at her. Slowly, she felt the pull of sleep dragging her down. With no time to spare, Wesley pushed the cauldron aside, and ripped the doll in half before the undead zombies could fully rise from their grave. Their bodies became lifeless and fell to the mud below.
N'uabe recovered quickly, only to find herself tied to a statue of an angel. "Why did you do it, woman?" His voice was quiet, not to disturb and wake the dead once more. "You were looking for the money, why?" N'uabe turned to him, half-angry and half-sad. "My people," she said again. "My people . . . need the money most. Need houses, food . . . life."
"And your choice of life is to bring back the dead?" Wesley asked, but N'uabe shook her head. "Way of life . . . involves understanding . . . death is not death, death is life waiting breath again."
" . . . where is Albertus' body?"N'uabe moved her index finger, pointing towards the shadow at the end of the field. Wesley motioned there were the body of Albertus had been, only to find it dead, right before an apple tree. A small bump was there, the Sandman had noticed. Grabbing a shovel, he dug unto the night, and found a chest full of documents entailing to the finance's whereabouts. Returning, he untied N'uabe and gave the documents to her. "Show this to Lady Hillendale. I will tell her . . . I will guide her to those who need the money most," he said, as the sun began to rise. "Go now, there are bodies to return, and the past to bury."
N'uabe knelt before him and thanked the man, before disappearing the sunlight. The Sandman was relieved, and placed the body of his old friend into his coffin once more. "Sweet dreams, Albertus," he said, liken to mourning.
With one last look, he slammed the coffin lid shut, and locked the door once more.
END.