Rising_A Second Death Supernatural Story Read online

  Rising

  The Second Death Prequel

  Brian Rella

  Illustrated by

  Jake Logsdon

  Contents

  1. HIM

  2. OLGA

  3. JESSIE

  4. JESSIE

  5. OLGA

  6. JESSIE

  7. OLGA

  8. JESSIE

  9. JESSIE

  10. OLGA

  11. JESSIE

  12. HIM

  13. JESSIE

  14. JESSIE

  15. OLGA

  16. HIM

  17. JESSIE

  18. FRANK

  Sneak Peak: Watchers of the Fallen

  PROLOGUE

  JESSIE

  FRANK

  JESSIE

  FRANK

  Get the next book in the Second Death Series…

  Thank You for Reading!

  About the Author

  1

  HIM

  Realm of the Second Death

  * * *

  A barren landscape, dotted with flickering fires and the hazy red rays of the dying sun; thick, black, silt-covered ground; driving winds carrying burning embers through the air like so many tiny feathers; sharp peaks near and on the horizon, scratching at the bleak, swirling sky; the sound of rolling earthquakes; bizarre creatures flying in the air and skittering on the ground; all these and much more, all a part of the suffering existence in a blackened world that exists outside the reality of man: the Second Death.

  Here, time has no meaning. The red sun never sets. The winds never stop. The solitude of this jail, the pain of survival, is eternal. And here they rot, fallen from the heavens to the Earth, banished to this forsaken place to waste away in the pain and suffering they wished to inflict on humankind.

  Man is nowhere to be found here. The madness of this place would devour his soul, and this horrid place is not meant for souls. The Second Death is a prison for the Fallen who once ruled humanity with savagery and bloodlust millennia ago.

  Within the Realm of the Second Death, entombed in the rock that leads down to the fiery rivers of blood in the Canyon of Dread, the Father of all Monsters, the Leech of the Aeons, is held captive. He exists in suffering isolation, unable to quench His thirst for blood, His indignation gnawing at Him for centuries. His quandary torments Him in his stony jail. Escape. Move. Feed. Freedom… Move…

  And suddenly, a creak in the rock surrounding Him gives Him pause. A crack, and then…space. There is space to move…

  2

  OLGA

  October 12, 2015

  Beauchamp, Louisiana

  * * *

  Olga stood outside of the old Beauchamp Consignment store in the middle of Main Street. The center of town had the worn look of an old shoe sole. The moving truck stood idling at the curb. Billows of smoke and chatter came from the driver’s side window, where the movers were joking and smoking to pass the time, patiently waiting to unload the truck.

  The streets and storefronts in town were mostly dark. Some scattered dim light from their neon signs onto the sidewalk. Beauchamp had been forgotten long ago. She could smell the age and neglect all around her. She chuckled to herself. This place is perfect.

  A man hurried down the street in a winter wool jacket, making Olga laugh again. Her long, tight curls of hair dropped in front of her eyes and she pushed them out the way. It was a peculiar thing about the South; once the temperatures got around fifty degrees, the winter jackets made their way out of the closets. This October cold snap was no different. It was in the low fifties and people were walking around town bundled up. Imagine if it snowed, Olga thought to herself. The town would surely shut down at the first flurry. Does it ever snow in Louisiana? Olga didn’t think so, and that was fine by her. She loved the warm weather.

  Israel had been mostly hot year round, albeit a different kind of hot. Down here in Louisiana, the heat was heavy. It weighed on her skin like a damp, warm blanket. In Israel, where she had spent the better part of the last two decades, the heat was dry and light most of the year. It had a grittiness to it, like the desert. Not like here at all.

  She checked her watch. It was two minutes after seven in the evening. The landlord had made a fuss about the hour of their meeting, but she had to get the books off the truck and into the store. Especially those books.

  The books had been fine for a long time in Israel. They were buried deep inside the Earth just outside of Jerusalem, until archaeologists dug up the area looking for some ancient texts, and in the process uncovered the books’ hiding place. The whole site had been compromised and Olga had had to scramble to get the books on a plane and out of the country. The Order had been ready with a back-up site by the time she had landed in New York. Her cargo had been moved to a smaller plane and she and the books had headed down here. She had gathered the ancient collection and her things, and crossed halfway around the world in less than forty-eight hours.

  7:05. Where is he? Olga was growing impatient. Moving artifacts around always made her nervous. These had been buried for good reason, and were not meant to be disturbed. If she had her way, she would have destroyed them all, but that was not what the Order wanted. Hide them, Brennan had said. She wanted them destroyed. What good did they bring to the world hanging around in hiding, just waiting to be discovered?

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she glanced at the text message on the screen. It was Brennan. He wanted to know her status. Olga texted him back saying she had landed and that everything was moving according to plan. She glanced up after touching send and saw an old man in a long wool coat and top hat walking slowly toward her with a manila envelope in his hand.

  “’Evenin’, Ms. Platt. Sorry for the delay. I was havin’ suppa’ with my family,” he said with a crooked smile. Olga wasn’t sure his smile was sincere, but she returned the cheeriness nonetheless. He was an older man with white hair and a network of wrinkles covering his face. He offered his hand and Olga took it, noticing the swollen knuckles and fragile grip which accompanied arthritis.

  “Oh,” she said with a chuckle. “I don’t mind at all, Mr. McAlister. I appreciate you taking the time out of your evening to help get me settled.”

  He nodded and stuck his key in the lock of the glass door, and then gestured for her to follow him inside. The store was empty except for a few boxes in the front corner. There was a small counter in the back of the store and a red curtain dividing the storeroom floor from what he had described as a small office space in the back. The shop also had a basement.

  “Right this way, Ms. Platt,” he said. “We just need to finish up some formalities on the lease and I’ll give you the keys.”

  “Wonderful, Mr. McAlister. I am so looking forward to getting this bookshop up and running. So exciting, isn’t it?” Her voice and tone were naturally exuberant. She couldn’t help it. She was a genuinely enthusiastic and happy person. It disarmed people to have someone so cheery and animated around. Mr. McAlister nodded politely and opened the manila envelope on the counter.

  “Standard terms,” he said. “And as you requested, it’s a fifty-year lease. I must say we are delighted to have someone with the foresight to invest in our community for such a long period of time.” His expression was slightly suspicious.

  “Well, I just love the South and this town is so quaint, what with all its history and being so close to New Orleans. It just felt so much like home, I knew I wanted to stay for a long time!”

  He nodded again and motioned toward the paper. Olga got the feeling he just wanted her to sign and get out of there.

  “Well, I’ll give you a chance to look over the documents and the space
for a moment,” he said.

  “That’ll be just fine,” Olga said, grinning. As she began scanning the lease, she heard the diesel engine of the truck cut, and the back door of the box truck slide up and open. The second truck was arriving later that night and Olga would begin unpacking and settling in.

  She signed the lease, closed the manila folder, and passed the pen and the folder back to the old man. He smiled and nodded. “Welcome to Beauchamp, Ms. Platt. Best a’ luck with your book shop.” He turned and left.

  “Thank you, Mr. McAlister. See you around,” she called after him.

  Olga watched him leave and glanced around the empty store. I have a lot of work to do.

  3

  JESSIE

  October 12, 2015

  Beauchamp, Louisiana

  * * *

  In her dream, Jessie saw a blackened wasteland as far as her eyes could see. There were mountains of rock with sharp peaks that poked at the billowing dark clouds above. A red sun burned low in the air in a permanent candy-apple-colored sunset.

  The ground vibrated under her bare feet with a cadence that she recognized. It was far away, but close enough to reverberate through the soles of her feet. It sounded like…like a heartbeat. A thunderous heartbeat somewhere in the distance that she could not see, but heard and felt with her entire body.

  The wind blew by her in giant gusts that lifted silt and rock from the blackened ground into the air and pelted her face and body. She raised her arm to shield herself from the onslaught. A violet hue protruded on the horizon. Jessie stared at it, the image almost clear enough for her to discern. It was on the tip of her tongue. It was…

  Something crashed behind her, jolting her from her contemplation on the object in the distance. Someone moaned, then wretched. Jessie turned. The door was open. The light was on.

  Jessie awoke in her bed facing the open door of her bedroom, which was next to the bathroom. Someone was in the bathroom. A woman. She heard her wretch and moan again. As her eyes adjusted to the light, and her mind cleared away the fog of her dream, a figure moved into the doorway of her bedroom. A large figure whose face was hidden from her by the shadows. A chill washed over her. She shivered, feeling the sleep leave her completely. She shook off the feeling and rubbed her eyes. Another wretch came from the bathroom. The figure in her doorway shifted and his face came into the light as he peered into the bathroom.

  “Steve?” Jessie called.

  He glanced back to her, pausing, not saying anything; and although she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt them boring into her. She rolled her feet onto the floor and slipped her fuzzy purple slippers on. She rose and ambled to the door of her room, rubbing her eyes. Steve didn’t move.

  Jessie glanced up at him with a scornful look. A-hole. “Is that my mom?” she asked. His whiskey soaked breath filled the air. She waved in front of her nose. “Get out of my way,” she said, disgusted, and pushed past him.

  “Mom?” Jessie called as she entered the bathroom, wide awake now.

  Her mother, Karen, was kneeling in front of the toilet. Her dirty blond hair, a mess of hairspray and vomit, hung half in and half out of the toilet as she continued her prayer to the porcelain god.

  “I’m okay, baby,” she gasped between heaves. “Go back to bed.”

  “You are not okay,” Jessie said and knelt at her side. She gathered her mother’s hair in her hand and held it behind her as the convulsions of Karen’s stomach rippled through her body. Gross. Jessie rubbed her mother’s back and she belched. Finally, the last heave rumbled through Karen. Her mother fell back on her bottom, pulling Jessie with her. Karen closed her eyes and her head lolled to the side.

  Jessie felt eyes on her back and glanced over her shoulder. Steve stood above them with a smirk plastered across his face.

  “Ain’t ya’all cute,” he slurred and chuckled.

  “What did you do to her?” Jessie asked with contempt.

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” he retorted. “She’s the one who tried to keep up with me. Hell, I tried to stop her, but I can’t talk no sense into the woman. She does whatever the hell she wants anyway no matter what I say. And you watch that tone with me, girlie. I won’t have no little girl sassin’ me in this house, ya’ hear?”

  “It’s my damn house, a-hole,” Jessie muttered under her breath, turning back to her mom.

  “You say something, girlie?” Steve asked.

  Jessie ignored him and brushed her mother’s hair back from her face. “Come on, Mom. Let’s get you into bed.” Jessie took her mother’s arm and tried to pull her to her feet. It was like trying to lift a hundred-pound sack of flour off the floor. She put all the strength of her fourteen-year-old body into a heave and Karen started to rise, bracing herself on the tub. Then her hand slipped from the tub and she fell back down onto the ground and was struck with the giggles.

  “Get out the way, girlie. Let a man handle this.”

  Steve stepped into the bathroom and pushed Jessie out of the way. “Hey!” Jessie shouted.

  “Pipe down, and git,” he growled.

  He bent to the ground, steadying himself on the toilet with one hand, and looped his other under Karen’s shoulders. Jessie saw his broad back flex as he lifted her like she weighed nothing. Her mother was still giggling as Steve hauled her on his hip out of the bathroom and dropped her roughly into the bed.

  Jessie sat on the floor of the bathroom and sighed. It’s a Monday night for God’s sake. Who gets this wasted on a Monday?

  She pulled herself up and went next door to her mother’s room. Steve had his shirt off and her mother was snickering on the bed. He was pulling her boots off forcefully and moved to her pants. “Take it easy, Steve, she’s wasted,” Jessie said.

  Steve dropped Karen’s leg and scowled. He stomped to the door and slammed it in Jessie’s face. Jessie stood there shaking her head.

  Karen’s giggling stopped and Jessie could hear heavy breathing and grunting from behind the closed door. Her shoulders slumped. She shuffled back to her bedroom, and closed the door behind her. Glancing at the clock, she saw her alarm was about to go off. It was six in the morning and almost time to get ready for school. She rubbed her eyes again and headed back toward the kitchen. On the way, she flicked on the TV and turned up the volume to drown out the moans coming from her mother’s room.

  In the kitchen, Jessie filled a bowl with some cereal and went to the refrigerator to grab some milk. She opened the door and grabbed the carton. It was too light. She groaned as a few drops of milk sloshed around inside. She made a mental note to buy some more milk on the way home from school.

  Sulking, she filled a glass with water and chewed dry cereal on the couch watching the morning news. A cold snap had hit Louisiana. It wasn’t going to get much warmer than mid-fifties all week. Perfect. Jessie crunched a few more morsels of cereal, then tip-toed back to her room. At least Marie isn’t here.

  Snores came from her mother’s room, so she dressed quickly, brushed her teeth, combed her long blond hair, and slipped her bag over her shoulder as she headed out the door to school.

  School was boring as usual. Jessie did her homework at lunch, alone under her favorite tree on the playground. After the last bell, she headed home.

  When she got home, her mother was in her room looking better than she had that morning. She had her going-out jeans on and was in front of her mirror. Really? She’s going out again?

  Jessie’s mother puckered her full lips in the mirror and dabbed them with bright red lipstick, putting the finishing touches on her face. She turned left, then right, and smiled at herself in the mirror. Steve came up behind her, put his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck. Jessie heard him whisper something in her ear. Her mother opened her mouth in a fake, shocked grin, and slapped him playfully on the chest. He grabbed her by the wrist and kissed her hard. Jessie turned away. Gross.

  “Steve,” her mother said. “Not in front of the kids!”

  Like she cares.


  “I want you, babe,” he said. “You’re so hot.” Then he whispered something again, but this time Jessie heard the word “MILF.” Disgusting creep!

  Jessie sincerely believed that her mother was a good mom, but she had no taste in men. Steve was a creep, in a long line of creeps her mother had been bringing home since her father died two years ago. He was one of the biggest losers Jessie had ever laid eyes on. No job. No aspirations. No money. He was always hanging around their house, sleeping over, and making disgusting comments about her mother in front of Jessie. She had no idea what her mother saw in such an a-hole, but she imagined it had something to do with the noises from her bedroom Jessie had heard earlier today.

  There was a flush from the bathroom and the door opened. Oh no! Jessie groaned internally.

  “OK, Marie,” her mother said. “Take care of my little girl.”

  “No problem, Karen,” Marie replied, cracking a smirk at Jessie. No! Not her!

  Marie and Steve were a package deal somehow. Jessie didn’t know the whole story behind the pair, but Marie was his daughter, or step-daughter, or something. When Steve came over, so did Marie most times—to babysit Jessie.

  “Mom, I don’t need a babysitter. I’m fourteen for God’s sake!” Jessie could feel the angst rise in her.

  “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, girlie,” Steve scolded.

  “Come on, Jess, you and Marie will have fun,” Jessie’s mom said.

  Marie smiled at Jessie’s mom and then glanced at Steve, batting her eyelashes. Oh, she’s so sincere. He’s probably kissing her, too. Double gross. She sighed, accepting her fate for the evening.

  Honestly, Jessie couldn’t see what women saw in guys like Steve. Her mother was beautiful. She could have any man she wanted and, yes, Steve was a good-looking guy in that “construction worker” kind of way. He was brawny and swaggered when he walked, but he was such a freeloading a-hole. Anyone with half a brain could see it.