Jonah laid her head against a throw pillow on his couch. Her gash was deep, delving down into her cranium all the way to her skull. The wound created a fissure of blood and flesh collecting down her face. Sweat glistened against her neck and collar bone. Her frayed jean jacket was more of a pale gray than a pale blue but small speckles of blue still lived, mainly around the sleeves and buttons. Her pants were denim as well, though dark blue in color nearly blending perfectly with her black t-shirt. Hung around her neck was a turquoise pendent carved delicately into a smooth rabbit. The artist had posed the rabbit’s body into a praying pose so when the necklace rested on person’s chest, the ears and arms mirrored the neck and shoulders of the wearer. On her right arm, carefully hidden under her sleeve, was a tattoo of what looked like hawk feathers connected to an object whose shape and form was hidden by her frayed sleeve.

Her wound began to seep onto the pillow, staining both her face and his couch. Her breaths were shallow and weak. Jonah knew if he didn’t call for help, she would likely be dead on his couch within the hour. Scrambling for his phone, he tripped over his coffee table, spilling piles of papers to the floor. As he caught himself, he ran his hand against his forehead. Her blood covered his brow in a thick red smear. The sight nearly caused him to vomit on the floor. He furthered the mess as he kicked and tumbled over the table rushing back to the bathroom. Clasping his hand on his mouth, he spread more blood over his face. He slammed the bathroom door open with his shoulder, tripping into the tub as he did, falling face first on the porcelain. He vomited heavily into the tub. The chunks and liquid splashed all the way up the wall.

Not bothering to lift his head, he gripped the chrome handle and let the water crash down his shoulders, rapidly dripping off his nose till all the blood, vomit, and saliva swirled down the drain. He turned the water off. Slowly breathing through his mouth, he gripped the tub, and pulled himself to a sitting potion on his shaggy salmon bathmat. The day’s emotions were flooding his mind. He just wanted to hug the floor and grieve. He didn’t ask for this strange woman to come his home and fill his head with hope. Samson was dead and that was the end of it. Yet even though he told himself that was the end, he couldn’t keep himself from begging that what she said was true.

He picked himself up off the floor and splashed some more water on his face to wake him back to the predicament he was in. As he was dabbing his face with the towel, a noise echoed out through the entire house. It was not a scream and it was not a shout. It sounded like a cry for help or the bawl of a baby. What separated it from all them was the pitch, it was almost melodic in nature. He couldn’t describe it but, to him it sounded like someone in immense pain was singing. He ran out of the bathroom and back to the woman on his couch. Pushing back to the living room, he was shocked to find her sitting up and buttoning her jean jacket. Her head was no longer gashed open, not even a scratch remained on her temple. Even the blood that had stained his pillow was somehow no longer there.

“Fatigue, I am just fatigued,” he thought.

He looked down at the floor. All the papers and folders that were previously scattered across the floor were now stacked neatly in perfect piles on the coffee table. He shook his head and almost broke down again. The woman finished buttoning up her jacket and she awkwardly waved at Jonah.

“Sorry about your couch.”

“How…the blood-” Jonah started, still looking intently at the coffee table as he continued to stutter.

“How are you…well?” He said not even believing the words as he said them.

She shrugged slowly rolling her lip up.

“I was hoping you could tell me. I was struck on the head by something big and dark on my way to your house. Next thing I know I am on your couch and my head doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said sheepishly.

Jonah grabbed a chair, placing it in front of her, he sank into it with all his weight, pushing the legs deep into the carpet. He scratched his ears, running fingers down to his beard.

“You were dying. Your head was virtually caved in and there was blood, so much blood, but now, now, blood doesn’t just disappear. Wounds don’t just disappear. I must be feverish. Perhaps you weren’t as bad and I…I have had a really bad day,” he said staring glossily out the window.

He rubbed his eyes and looked the coffee table. He could possibly chalk her miraculous recovery to fever and carelessness, but the papers were definitely on the floor and even if they weren’t, he never organized his papers so neatly in his entire tenure as a professor. The sight frightened him.

“I’m Ash,” she said breaking the silence, “Ashlyn Whitebird.”

“Whitebird?” Jonah said trying to sound interested.

“It’s Navajo,” she said.

Jonah sat up. Most of the shock and emotion had burned through his system. Now he was only tired.

“Miss Whitebird. You said my brother was alive, earlier today I received information telling me that he was dead. So, not be rude, but unless you have definitive proof my brother is alive, I am going to ask you leave. I have a long day of packing ahead of me tomorrow.”

Ash folded her hands leaning forward and stared intently into Jonah’s eyes.

“Do you believe in God?” She stated.

Jonah rolled his eyes, not remotely ready for this type of conversation.

“Please, I got enough of the preachy self-righteousness from my brother.”

“It is not what you think. I just want to know; do you believe in God?” She persisted.

“No. I believe God is a coping mechanism for all the horror in the world. A fairy tale for adults so they can sleep better at night.”

Ash lowered her eyes, seemingly disappointed by his answer. Jonah was getting annoyed. The same annoyance he had for Samson for so many years. The self-righteous desire to have everyone believe what you want to believe. He wanted to tell her off, but something stopped him. Whether it was fatigue or the fact he really missed Samson, he was determined to hear her out.

“I have always believed in God or some other form of positive spirit. But this January I received word from Samson that he had met the Devil himself. A large lurking mass with blue skin and no eyes. Dressed head to toe in black. Sharp teeth and a violent gurgle. He tried to force Samson to release hell on the earth but was unable, so he tried to kill Samson. But you know all this from the book.”

Jonah stared at her in bewilderment.

“What book?”

Ash reached into her coat and pulled out a letter. The letter was simple white printer paper, but several edges and corners were caked in dried blood. She took a page out of the letter and handed it to Jonah.

“This is your section. Samson said he sent this letter to you and me and that you would know the location of the book from it. Did you not get this letter?”

“Ashlyn, I have not spoken to my brother in some time. If he sent me a letter talking about a book and his night with the devil, I would have definitely remembered receiving that.”

Jonah unfolded the letter. To his surprise it was typed and not handwritten as was Samson’s way. Even so it was nice to see something he wrote and, in a way, hear his voice again.

Jonah,

I know we haven’t spoken in a while. My heart still bleeds since our last encounter. I wish more than anything that you would join the followers and embrace God’s love. Now more than ever. Recently I had an encounter with a very powerful demon or possibly the devil himself. He was a dark, tall, vulgar creature who called himself Saint. My thought is that he is using the moniker to taint anyone who holds that holy honor. He beat me half to death, tortured me and tried to make me release more demons on the earth. Please believe me brother. I was dead and buried but somehow, I managed to free myself of my watery grave. I have sent you a copy of the freemason’s journal plus a journal of my own encounter. I know you won’t believe a word of this so I will show you. Once you open the journal flip to the back and find the key, I left you. Take it down to King’s Chapel Burying Ground. You will find the proof there. Despite our differences I have always wanted the best for you. Take care.

Samson

Jonah read and read the letter over and over for what felt like an eternity. Ash shifted slightly on the couch. She built up her courage and reached across and touched his hand.

“Jonah? Is everything okay?”

He crumbled up the letter and hurled it on the floor.

“It’s gibberish. Samson was obviously sick or something. He goes missing in the desert perhaps overly feverish and then he writes some, some gibberish and there you have it.”

“Jonah-”

“No, I’m sorry Ashlyn, but I only brought you into my home because you were hurt but clearly you…you are not hurt so please, I don’t know how you knew Samson and I am sure I will see you at the funeral, but for now please leave me to grieve.”

He extended his hand toward the door with a ferocity behind it that was a blend of anger and sadness. Ash nodded and stood up towards the door. She turned back at the threshold gripping her coat tightly.

“Jonah, please tell me before I go, what did they tell you?”

“They told me Samson went out…went out hiking in the desert and died in a hole. He should have called someone and told him what he was doing.”

Ash scoffed under her breath and took deep breath, trying not to cry.

“That’s bullshit. I was supposed to meet him that night. I am guessing you have never been to his church, but outside there is a large statue it was covered in his blood. So was the tile and the dirt surrounding the church, but Samson was nowhere. I don’t know what happened to him but if there is even a spark of hope that he is there I am going to do my damnedest to find him. I thought you would too.”

Jonah walked over to the door and opened it for her. The cool winds of the evening whipped through the night rustling the leaves. The faint smell of moisture as another storm began heading towards them.

“Travel safe. I guess I will see you at the funeral.”

“I’ll be at the Marriot if you change your mind. Room 400,” she said trying her best to mask her anger.

She walked out the door. She was barely two steps out of the door when Jonah flung the door shut. Turning back to his living room he saw the crumpled letter nesting on the carpet. It contrasted the neatly organized coffee table. Just the sight of it made him angry. Samson’s feeble, weak attempt to scare him to religion. Still, he reached down and grabbed it, shoving it carelessly into his back pocket. He wanted to believe. He would have said it was because he was still trying to hold onto Samson. Yet the truth was, he was curious to what it meant even if it was as he had said earlier, gibberish.

He tore his shirt and pants off and threw them on the floor without a second thought as he mindlessly made his way back to his bedroom. He collapsed on his bed and rolled over. Tightly gripping the blankets in a fist. The night was cold but for reasons beyond his comprehension his room was hotter than it had ever been. The sheer heat from the sheets felt as if he was trying to sleep under a heat lamp. He slept, though violently, tossing and turning, kicking his headboard and side tables, cutting deep into his feet and staining the wood. His sweat drenched the bed in cold puddles, making his bed either a solid slab of unrelenting heat or a sickly wet swamp of his own salty discharge.

He dreamt he was in the desert. The sand was purple and gray, changing and layering itself as he walked. Groundhogs, squirrels, lizards, moles, and rabbits began breaking through the dirt. They would scream as their teeth fell out into the sand creating more sand as they did. With each scream they begged Jonah to save them before the sand would swallow them up and the next round of animals would break through and start the process again. Their screams and bellows echoed through Jonah’s skull long after they withered back into the earth. He walked into the center of the desert as the stars began to fall from the sky, striking the sand and turning each animal into glass before shattered into the earth. Even the skin and intestines would melt into glass before mixing back into the earth. As the last star fell from the sky and the earth was burnt to nothing but soot and ash. His feet scorched, his eyes blinded, his lung coughing down every breath of ash as the ground began form a shape. The black sand spun around, churning into a cyclone. The cyclone gripped the ground, holding hard at the base began to form a pair of legs swirling up into the torso and finally to a head. The black and gray husk lumbered step to step having to break from the sand and reform upon the next step. It reached him, clutching his throat and filling his lungs with ash. The gurgling laughter was the last thing he heard as the light flickered away, leaving him with nothing but ash and screams.

“WAKE UP!”

The command sounded in his room, snapping him awake as his cheek lay drenched in a pool of sweat. He quickly threw on some clothes, rushing through the kitchen, he threw open the refrigerator, he didn’t even look as he knocked over the eggs and milk to grab a beer. He slammed the door shut and pushed out onto his back porch. The fireflies bumped against the windows. The cool sounds of the early morning brought him back to reality. He fixed the beer on the back of his neck and slumped into the chair outlooking his yard.

He cracked open the beer on the side of the porch, slowly sipping it trying to forget the dreams. He tossed the cap carelessly off the side of the porch. It bounced heavily and rolled into the yard. He was surprised at the distance of the cap. In meek curiosity he stared over the side of the porch. There was a small wooden box covered in grass and leaves. He stepped off the porch and picked it up. The box looked old, as if someone had pulled it from a museum, yet the corners seemed damaged. He made his way back into the house and set the box on the kitchen counter. He fished into his drawer and pulled out a screwdriver. Digging it into the box he was surprised he able to snap it with ease. Small bits of sawdust filled his counter and floor as he pulled off the wooden lid. Inside was a crisp book, untouched by time. In center was a giant golden “G” inside a compass. He opened the first page.

The Burial and Resurrection of Nevara Florentino

Recorded by Mason Ruben Alcazar

Scribed by Mason Mogan Illiard

Jonah took the book out of the box and noticed small bits of red rock in the base of the box. He took another large swig of beer and slammed it on the table in frustration. He pulled his phone and dialed, chugging the beer with every ring. Reception answered.

“Yes, Room 400 please.”