Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (classic literature list .txt) 📗

The world had become a vile cesspool, full of greed, war, and corruption. Even a just man hid secrets in his heart that spat in the face of the Creator. Ra’ah had lived in the slime with these creatures all his life and now, finally, had risen in his enlightenment to a plane that few others could reach. The muddy waters of existence were now as clear as glass, and their turbulence was no more. He had waited years, and now all was ready.

Turning north out of the downtown district, Ra’ah threw up his dark hood for protection against unfriendly eyes. Eyes that wouldn’t see with the heart, nor with the soul, seeing only the flesh of the man and misunderstanding what was beginning here tonight. Ra’ah understood. He knew and did not fear any consequence, for the rewards far outweighed the punishment. He stopped for a moment and reached under his shirt to the hilt of his knife. It, like him, had been made for this purpose: an instrument to serve in the great work ahead. He continued down the street, now lined with homes, silhouetted against the moonlight.

After a few minutes, Ra’ah stopped at his destination: a large two-story home in the heart of the little neighborhood. The sole source of light came from a lamp above the front porch. Everything else was dark and still, and somewhere inside, his first task awaited. He looked down at his watch. The face was barely visible, but there was just enough ambient light to read it. Three minutes until midnight. It was nearly time. Ra’ah looked up and down the street. All was silent. He crept along the fence line of the house and made his way into the rear corner of the backyard, next to a woodpile and under the shade of a small tree. He still had a few spare moments before he needed to spring into action.

And so, in the darkness before the new day struck, Ra’ah knelt and raised his eyes toward Heaven.

THREE

It was as if she was looking through two eye holes in a mask as she peered down at the sleeping boy. She could hear a muttered whisper, a low, hypnotic voice, speaking rhythmically, and though she couldn’t understand the words, somehow she knew they were coming from her throat. A brown, unlabeled bottle in a gloved hand appeared in front of her, followed by another that lifted out of the darkness to uncork it. The second hand disappeared from her sight and then returned holding a white cloth. Delicately, the first hand poured some of the liquid onto the cloth and pressed it over the child’s nose and mouth. Almost immediately, the young boy’s eyes snapped open, and there was a moment of recognition in them before they rolled back in his head.

The eyes looked toward the half-open door for a moment, as if expecting someone to come rushing through. No one came, and the room spun with a blur back to the child on his bed, taking slow, shallow breaths. Her own will struggled to help him, which proved useless, and within seconds she could feel the weight of the child in the arms. Within moments, the hallway and staircase were rushing by, barely visible in the peripheral, and before she knew it, she felt the night’s air rush onto the face. The arms laid the child down in the grass, and the eyes turned to look at the back of the house. Through the darkness, she thought she could just make out what looked like an upside down U above the back door. The eyes would not allow her to focus on anything else and turned back to the boy, lying peacefully in the grass. The arms appeared again to carry him a dozen steps further.

A pile of wood came into view, stacked about three feet high. On top, there were several longer pieces that formed a make-shift platform. She felt the weight in the arms lighten, and the eyes looked down at the young boy, now lying face down on top of the woodpile. Her own consciousness began to wrestle against the prison of the mask again as she felt the right hand grip the handle of something hidden under the shirt. The hand came back into view and she saw the knife: a long and curved blade with a carved wooden handle. She tried to shut the eyes but, though a gray veil began to fall over her sight, she could not shut out the image of the left hand grasping the boy’s hair and raising his head while the knife was moved into position under his chin. The eyes looked to the night sky, and as her vision continued to fade, she heard those same low, muffled words. Just before the blackness finally took her, she felt the violent jerk of the right hand.

Maureen’s eyes snapped open and she kicked the sheets off her legs as she leaped out of her bed. She could feel her breathing come in short gasps, and she felt dizzy from standing up too fast. She sat against the wall, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths. Her heart was pumping in her ears, but ever so slowly, it began to slow and the thumping faded. She opened her eyes again to look over at her nightstand. The green numbers of her clock radio were the only thing showing in the darkness. 2:47. Maureen felt a slow churning in her stomach but managed to stand and creep back over to her bed. She reached down to find that her sheets were completely soaked. Balling them all up and raising them to her nose, she was grateful to find that it was just sweat. Still, it would be uncomfortable sleeping in her bed the rest of the night, especially since she found more sweat on her