The Devil's Revenge: The Space Between

Chapter One

Quincy sat in the old Buick’s front passenger seat and regarded the driver, one brave enough to hitch him a ride. The man was clean shaven, with slicked-back salt and pepper hair. The faint scent of old-fashioned tonic wafted from him. Quincy guessed him to be around sixty.

Outside, the rain drummed on the car’s roof. Quincy was thankful the man had stopped. It was nice not being rained on.

Quincy had recently realized who he was. He was a man on the cusp of greatness and things were finally starting to line up! First, he’d decided to finish college in Santa Fe with a degree in journalism. After that, his singular goal would be to report his strange, otherworldly experience to the world, the one involving giant snakes shooting from the sky.

Much of his story was a mystery, but he’d tell it regardless. He would write about the eyeless snake that nearly skewered him. He still didn’t understand why he’d been allowed to live. There’d been no witnesses which played to his favor. He could embellish.

His plan for greatness would require planning. Mistakes could not be had. Even the slightest error might label him a crackpot, which wasn’t the kind of greatness he was interested in. He needed to theorize. He needed to do research.

The name’s Bob.

The guy’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. This guy made him uneasy and he wasn’t sure why.

So, where are you from, Bob inquired.

Huh? was the entirety of Quincy’s response. He was still thinking about his plan.

Where are you from? Bob asked again.

Quincy mulled over his options. He wasn’t local, but to say otherwise would surely raise a red flag for Bob. Not many people pick up drifters in the middle of Nowhere, Northern California. He did not want to be removed from his ride. He did not want to be put back in the rain. Finally, he decided on the truth. I’m from Santa Fe.

New Mexico?

Yes.

Bob nodded. What are you doing way up here?

I’m a college student down there. I’m on my way back from visiting a friend in Seattle, Quincy lied.

In truth, he was in the middle of an adventure. His original plan had been to hitch rides from Santa Fe to the North coast of Alaska and back before start of fall semester. He would then publish his adventure complete with embellishment. His goal had been to become a famous writer. But his encounter with the eyeless snake changed everything. It gave him a story that made his last one seem inconsequential. This was his ticket to fame and glory if he did it right.

Bob continued. When I picked you up, I said it was raining cats and dogs.

Quincy nodded. It still is.

Correct, the man responded. But then you added, it was also raining giant snakes.

Quincy did not like where this was going. So?

So, what did you mean by that?

Quincy could feel his heart rate quicken. Just be cool. It’s just an expression.

I’ve never heard it before, the man replied.

Ever been to Santa Fe?

Nope.

Good. Well, it’s a popular saying down there. We have a lot of snakes in Santa Fe, probably more than cats and dogs combined.

It’s a popular saying, huh?

Quincy didn’t answer and a welcome, albeit uncomfortable, silence ensued. The driver watched the road while Quincy concentrated on calming his inner-self. The only sound was that of the car’s wipers as they went through their monotonous routine squeegeeing rain from the windshield. 

Bob broke the silence after a few minutes. We need to stop here, he said as he merged the Buick onto the exit ramp and into a rest area.

Quincy noticed the rest stop was empty except for one other vehicle. He squinted at it through the downpour. It was a black Ford F250 with a custom-made windowless topper.

Bob parked next to the Ford. Even through the rain, Quincy could see the cab was empty. The Ford’s owners were probably in the nearby bathroom/vending machine building waiting out the storm.

Do you need to use the restroom? the driver asked.

No.

Are you sure?

I went just before you picked me up, he said truthfully, recalling how his recent near-death experience had resulted in involuntarily bladder evacuation.

Good, the man replied. Sometimes this can make you wet yourself and I don’t want the seats to smell.

Quincy didn’t have time to process those words, much less react to the stun gun Bob pointed and fired at him. He only felt the sting of current as it traveled through him like a million fiery needles puncturing his skin at the same time.

His last coherent thought as he blacked out was this: Bob’s done what the giant snakes failed to do. I’m dead.

BOB’S FULL NAME WAS Robert Gulam, but he went simply by Bob. He was also known as The First Seeker.

He’d been born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, but over time had moved steadily westward and northward. His mission during that time was to seek.

Bob was raised, like so many others from the Bible Belt, to revere Jesus Christ as the one true way to God. However, he’d never really bought into that philosophy, not since he was a little kid anyway.

Oh, he believed in the existence of a god or gods. There was at least one, maybe more—probably more. Regardless of quantity, he believed something that could be called a god existed. Everything didn’t just come to be with a big bang, of that he was certain. Everything was too complex to just happen. Something must have created it.

Bob wasn’t Christian. In his mind, it was naïve to think Jesus was the only way to enlightenment. The narrow gate, in his mind was not a narrow gate at all, but many narrow gates, all leading to truth and enlightenment by different paths.

Bob’s purpose in life was to seek out what God was and what he was not. It was his calling, his path to enlightenment. He’d been seeking for more than 30 years now. He’d started the journey alone. But it didn’t take long though before other like-mined individuals joined him. The first was a Lincoln, Nebraska college student named Janice who dropped out and joined him on the journey. Thus the Union of Seekers was born.

Over time more people joined and the Union of Seekers’ membership began to grow. In Oregon they established headquarters.

The Seekers were an eclectic bunch. Some were wealthy, but disenchanted with gaining wealth. Others were homeless and tired of wallowing in poverty. And of course, there was everyone in-between. They all shared a desire for spiritual truth. They were open to any road. They were open to any theory or idea. And they all acknowledged Bob Gulam as their leader.

The Union of Seekers now numbered over two hundred members. About a quarter of them lived on the secluded compound in the back country of Oregon. Almost all the others were spread out across the country in satellite compounds.

As father of the movement, he was dubbed The First Seeker and virtually worshiped by the members. He was the very first after all, and if history had taught Bob anything, it was that such organizations succeed only through such divine leadership.

And so it came to pass, Bob Gulam, the First Seeker, had a vivid dream. No, it was more than a dream. It was a message. Because of that message, he took a stun gun from the compound’s extensive and slightly illegal arsenal, got into his black Ford F250 with custom-built topper, and drove to a rest stop where he disposed of a young man in a brown Buick.

Because of that dream, he found a young man wandering on the highway. Because of it, he found himself using the stun gun on that young man, making sure the stranger would not wet himself in the process. He did not want the back of his truck to smell of urine, after all, because urine was a hard smell to eradicate.

The poor guy had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but from Bob’s perspective it was fate. The man needed to be sacrificed for the good of the Union of Seekers. He checked the man’s crotch as he moved him from the Buick to topper-covered cargo area. The man was wet from the rain, but urine-free. That was good.

Chapter Two

Millie approved of the darkness she created. She embraced it as she would her own mother. She herself was dark. This was a fact she didn’t dispute. She acknowledged it. She celebrated it. But it was, she thought, the darkness of the womb. What she knew, her powers, thrived in the safe, secret darkness as a baby thrived in the womb. She used her powers to help people – light from darkness so to speak.

She looked down from the open stairway landing. From there, she had an excellent view of the parlor. She marveled at what she saw. Even after thirty years, the thrill of it had not worn thin. It was beautiful. Her creation allowed the living to commune with the dead. It was also an invitation for those dead who wished to speak with the living.

The only light came from the many burning candles dispersed around the parlor. She preferred candlelight because of its purity. Millie smiled: the ambiance satisfied her. In the middle of the parlor sat a table of five equal sides, a perfect pentagram. Five high-backed, black-leather, Gothic-looking chairs surrounded the table, one on each side. The chairs hadn’t come cheaply. But Millie thought they were worth every penny because of what they added to the surrounding atmosphere.

The pentagram table was covered with a silk table cloth. It was black except for the intricate crimson embroidery work done upon it. Millie herself had done the needle-work. Now, as she looked down upon that table and viewed the crimson pentagram upon it, her pride overflowed.

Everything in the parlor exuded exactly the feel she wished to exude. The walls were covered with medieval tapestries of various pagan themes. The floor was dark with ebony stain. The ceiling had been painted to resemble the colors of the night sky.

Millie was almost completely satisfied as she took in the scene below her—almost. But not entirely. There was still that elusive last percent. She was at ninety-nine. She coveted one hundred percent satisfaction. She yearned for it.

Patience, Millie, she thought to herself. If she could only remain patient, she felt her goal of total satisfaction could be attained.

Patience, Millie, she mumbled. Just be patient.

Patience didn’t come easily for Millie. Not at moments like this. Seeing her parlor adorned as it was only elicited excitement within her which went against the state of Zen she was trying to attain. Her hands trembled. She folded them together, but nothing changed. The trembles continued. Her excitement built. She pushed her weight against the nearby banister to steady her body. Yet, the tremors continued—as they always did at this point.

Her breathing came in short gasps. In through the nose, out through the mouth, she told herself. But if anything, her breathing only grew shorter and breathier.

Vertigo seized her. Millie quickly unfolded her hands and grasped the banister for balance. She must not lose consciousness. She must not fall down the stairs. Such a mishap would lend poorly to her goal of attaining one hundred percent satisfaction.

After a moment, she felt the dizziness pass and she knew it was time to immerse herself fully into the parlor’s ambiance. She descended the stairs, soaking in the space. It felt as if she were wading down the steps of a heated pool with each step drawing her into deeper submersion.

Patience, Millie, she reminded herself. You must remember to maintain your patience. With every step, she felt her emotions rise. Her thoughts raced as her body ached with anticipation. Calm down Millie, old gal. You must have patience.

Finally, her feet left the last stair and touched the parlor floor. She moved from there to her robe which hung from a hook on the wall. Millie removed it from the hook and put it on. It felt slick on her arms. Its black satin fabric caressed her skin, inciting goose flesh to erupt upon her body.

Remaining on the hook was an amulet. Millie put it on over the robe. She loved this charm. It was one of her favorite symbols of darkness, a silver pentagram. With it, she would bring solace to those who grieved, perhaps bring them messages they needed to hear from their departed loved ones.

Ding-Dong.

The doorbell. Her first guest was here! She approached the door and felt a surge of energy. That elusive last percent had been captured. Complete satisfaction filled her spirit.

The excitement overwhelmed her like a crashing wave as Millie reached for the door. Her hand shook as she grasped the knob. She turned it and opened the door. There stood her first guest. She welcomed him in as the familiar excitement continued to mount.

Chapter Three

Quincy was lying on a hard surface. He opened his eyes, but darkness prevented him from seeing. A bumping sensation vibrated his body. He could hear a humming and rumbling—the sound of an engine running.

Puzzled, he backtracked his thoughts. Almost instantly, an image of an old brown Buick entered his mind. The flash of a face flickered by, a clean-shaven face—the driver of the Buick. He remembered talking with the driver. He remembered the rest stop. Then everything came to him in a flood of thought.

The jerk shocked me! All that time, he’d been so concerned with not coming off as a nut that he hadn’t realized the driver was nuttier still.

He tried to recall details of the attack because they might be crucial to his survival. The Buick had parked beside another vehicle, a black Ford F250 with a windowless topper. This, he realized, was likely where he was now. The sounds and vibrations all verified this suspicion.

Crap.

Chapter Four

C ome in! Come in! Millie said for the third time with same enthusiasm she’d had the first two times. Her last guest stood in her open doorway. He’s not much to look at , she thought. If he was younger than a hundred, then he’d aged poorly.

She looked down at him which was rare because she wasn’t a tall woman. Millie wondered if he’d been taller in his younger years. Yes, she thought as she observed the cane he held. There’s at least three inches lost due to his stoop.

You must be Mr. Jenkins, Millie said politely.

And you must be the witch, he replied with a wheezy voice.

We prefer the term Spiritual Mediums. ‘Witch’ has too many false connotations. I don’t stir eyes-of-newt stew in a big black cauldron. I’ve never turned a prince into a frog, and I’m quite sure I don’t know how fly a broom.

Mr. Jenkins offered no apology. And Mr. Jenkins also has too many negative connotations. It makes me sound old. Call me Ned. He removed his fedora and held it out to Millie. His head was almost completely bald with the exception of a thin ring of hair that encircled the back of his head from ear to ear.

She took his hat. The others are already seated. Please come. Take your place.

She stepped aside and Ned brushed by her. She caught the scent of cologne as he passed, some classic scent, perhaps Old Spice. 

Ned went slowly, deliberately. She was so excited to get going that his speed was painful. But she refrained from coaxing him to move faster. He was a paying customer. She wanted him satisfied. She wanted his referral business.

Ned sat down in the chair she’d pulled out for him at the table. He leaned his cane against his thigh.

Ned, are you comfortable? Millie asked.

Quite.

Then let’s begin.

The candles flickered, creating a macabre effect. They were the only source of light other than what drifted to them from the frosted glass window set in the front door. The general gloom added a foreboding element.

In the candlelight, Millie looked over the scene. Everything appeared as she wanted it to appear. Happy with the ambiance, she turned to her clients and looked each one directly in the eye. They all sat around the pentagram table. They all looked serious, which was good. She needed them to take this seriously because it was not child’s play, not by a long shot.

Now, our dark circle is complete. The sacred séance can begin. Her eyes narrowed as she braced herself for what was coming. She hoped her clients were preparing themselves as well. This was a solemn ritual and deserved solemn preparation. 

They all stared back at her, visibly excited. She fed off their excitement like a shark in bloody water.

Millie hadn’t chosen this profession for the money. To her, witchcraft was so much more than a career. The money was simply a means by which she could continue her lifestyle. Her art was so satisfying, she would have done it for free. Still, one needed to pay the bills.

She looked at the others, staring into their eyes. They were completely with her on this journey. She sensed that much. Every one of them—believers in her ability. She was pleased with these who dared travel with her into the realm of spirits.

Not all groups were in like these. Sometimes, skeptics were present. The skeptics always tried to slide under her radar, but she invariably identified them. The glimmer in their eyes gave them away. But this group had no skeptics. Not one glimmer of doubt could be seen.

That was good. Millie wasn’t a fake. She didn’t use wires, or hidden speakers, or trickery of any kind. She was the real McCoy in the Medium world.

She began her ritual. Doing so brought her joy. It always did, but more so now than usual. She had a feeling this was going to be a special journey. She spirits had told her so. She could hardly wait.

Chapter Five

Robert Gulam, aka the First Seeker, drove his F250 along the highway until it was time to exit onto the rural blacktop. This he took until the asphalt ended and the grated gravel began. He drove on this road until turning off into the wild, tree-lined path. Here, he passed the sign which marked the edge of the Union of Seekers’ property. It was private grounds and trespassing could be fatal.

This was his land, his home. Here he was the unquestioned leader, the First Seeker, virtually a god. Ahead, the compound awaited—his compound, the International Headquarters of the Union of Seekers.

The rain had stopped, but the road was still a muddy mess. It wasn’t too much for the Ford though. The large tires pulled his truck through the muck, its four wheels spinning in unison.

Not only had the rain stopped, but the clouds were dissipating. The afternoon sun was peeking through. It shined into the cab via the front windshield, but the First Seeker did not need to lower the truck’s visor. From the rearview mirror hung three black fuzzy dice, which were sufficient to block the sun from his eyes.

Three dice, Bob Gulam, the First Seeker, thought. How many times had outsiders commented on the three dice? Why not two dice like most people? Why