The Devil's Bed Read online

  Table of Contents

  I - The Legend of The Dead

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  II - The Dead of the Legend

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  About the Author

  The Devil's Bed

  Doug Lamoreux

  Copyright (C) 2011 Doug Lamoreux

  Layout Copyright (C) 2014 by Creativia

  Published 2014 by Creativia

  eBook design by Creativia (www.creativia.org)

  Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

  This is a work of fiction. All events and characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  To Jenny

  without whom nothing matters

  To Jack, the Sac, and AC,

  whose efforts allowed the dead to walk.

  I - The Legend of The Dead

  One

  “And now, messieurs et mesdames,” the tour guide said, “we pass through the centerpiece of the most terrifying legend in all of France and one of the world's most horrifying stories.”

  Brandy had been waiting for this for over an hour. And, as it had been a long time coming, she intended to enjoy it.

  As for the others in the group, the guide's speech was having its effect. With the mood established by the remnants of the ruined castle, looming behind him and above them, and the additional gloom cast by the forlorn chapel on the opposite side of the courtyard, they were of a mind to be horrified.

  “From this spot,” he continued, “the Templar knights set out on horseback. Rich and greedy for more, bloodthirsty, hated and feared. They raided the countryside, stealing, murdering, then returned with their captives. Oui, the Templar's sacrificed virgins to the Lord of the Flies, here, at the insanely named Château de la liberté. Castle Freedom; the castle of death.”

  Finally, Brandy thought, finally some death!

  Her elation was because they were well into the tour and, until that point, the guide's schtick had all the horror flourishes yet sadly lacked emotion. His flat delivery was spoiling the show. Brandy was neither weird nor ghoulish. She recognized hopping from one European graveyard to another was not the vacation most would choose. But they weren't writing a Master's degree thesis entitled 'Burial Practices Around the World and What They Mean to Life' and she was. So, despite the gorgeous autumn weather in the green, rock-strewn hills of the Languedoc-Roussillon region of the south of France, amid this group of tourists clothed in their own explosions of color, Brandy followed, notebook open, pen at the ready, eager to collect facts about… the dead.

  Brandy Petracus was a compact brunette, easy on the eyes, and approachable when she wanted to be. Everywhere she went she carried her bag o' plenty (named by her fiancé), a massive purse made from an old carpetbag to which she'd added a duffle shoulder strap. In it she carried all of the accoutrement needed to exist on this hostile planet; food, First Aid and farding material. Oh, and her brain worked. More than once an intimidated male had called her 'a computer'. She could live with that.

  Like a computer Brandy had been in 'sleep' mode throughout the bus trip from the village of Paradis, where she, her fiancé Ray and Ray's sister, Vicki, were staying, to the remnants of this 14th century site. She remained uninvolved throughout the cursory look at the grounds, the decaying out-buildings (a chapel kept up, a stable partially so, a guard house not so much), and the ruins of the castle.

  Put away all fantasy notions. Neither white knight nor fair princess would be putting in an appearance. These were the ruins of a nine hundred-year-old fortress, subjected to two hundred years of battle, then abandoned. Seven centuries of exposure and vandalization followed. Not to mention bombardment. The chapel and stable had been occupied by the Germans during World War II and those few portions of the castle untouched by time, the elements, and ancient armies surrendered with the Nazis to several well-placed Allied cannon shells. What remained consisted of a western wall, the ground and first floor of the keep, the ground floor entrance to the main hall… and a descending staircase barred by a NE PAS ENTRER sign (DO NOT ENTER, Brandy imagined) leading to a spoken of, but unseen, dungeon.

  The tour guide, Felix Bussey, droned on. In his mid-twenties, pale and blonde, Felix was so obviously uninterested in his own patter it defied logic he kept his job. His desire to be elsewhere was palpable. His only displays of interest came with repeated glances at a startling red-head on the fringe of the group.

  And what a group. Besides the red-head, there were two tall Nordic men who looked sorry they'd come, and several Asians having the time of their lives. There was a French-speaking coterie led by a stick of a woman intent on proving her education, at least, was well-rounded. She conducted her own tour in spite of Felix. An Irish couple trailed the group; she annoyed with him, he with everything. When Felix said something he doubted, the Irishman muttered “Fek.” When he did, his wife jabbed his ribs and barked “Language!” There was a Don Juan look-alike who'd apparently taken the tour a thousand times. And Brandy's future sister-in-law, Vicki.

  Brandy hung in, watching the stick lady lecture, watching the Irish pair spar, watching the tour guide watch the red-head. The exercise offered its amusements but was wearing thin. If the tour guide didn't get to the morbid stuff soon, she feared she would have a fit.

  Felix droned on as he led the group down the stairs. “The Templars introduced the 'keep' to French military architecture.” They spilled into an open area that once had been the foyer and he moved on to the differences between a castle and a Château. Then amused himself by pointing out the Château de la liberté was in fact neither. It was a Stronghold. Pen poised, with nothing to write, Brandy bit her lip not to scream.

  Victoria Kramer was not having a good time. While the tour wasn't all Brandy had hoped for she at least had moments of excitement. Vicki languished. Brandy's insistence they remain at the front of the pack hadn't made it any easier. The stunning blonde was failing to hide her creeping boredom. It was not the vacation Vicki imagined when she'd first heard Brandy's sales pitch. The local hotel was clean and modern. But it was hardly the Château of which she'd dreamed.

  And having a room across from Brandy and Ray didn't help. She and Brandy had been
friends a long time. She'd introduced her brother, encouraged their relationship, and was looking forward to a best friend as a sister-in-law. But suddenly Brandy and Ray were fighting and, while it was none of her business, it made life uncomfortable.

  Vicki's greatest fear was winding up a third wheel. And that's exactly what happened. She'd been feeling superfluous throughout and here she was, tagging along again, on Brandy's death tour. Meanwhile Ray, the jerk, was off doing whatever younger brothers did when no one was looking.

  Life wasn't fair. She was an attractive, single woman at a castle in the south of France… and did she have a knight to save her? She had Brandy taking dictation from the endlessly droning tour guide.

  “During the reconquering of Europe, many castles were built to protect the villages of France from the Muslim Moors and Christian Castilians. Military Orders, particularly the Templar Knights, defended the Kingdom.”

  Felix led them out the arched doorway and into the courtyard. Vicki was swept along without enthusiasm.

  Across the space stood a forlorn chapel and its shadowed bell tower. A stable leaned in the grass off the courtyard to the left and their tour bus sagged in the grass to the right. Further to the right, unseen beyond the wall, was the dry moat and drawbridge they'd crossed coming in. Vicki longed to cross it again – going out.

  Out… to a hot bath in a comfortable hotel room (even if it wasn't a Château), in the village of Paradis, in the valley below this crappy old castle. Somewhere, outside of her head, the tour guide was still talking.

  “This is where they lived. And this is where the terror began…”

  Two

  As advertised, the tour finally got around to the blood and black magic. When 'virginal sacrifices' came up, despite the cool of the day, the glowering red-head began a slow burn. Brandy decided she was either an angry virgin or she knew Felix personally.

  Either way, Brandy's patience was eventually rewarded. Felix got round to the gore and Brandy came out of 'sleep' mode. She lifted her notebook, poked her ill-fitting reading glasses back on her too-short-by-a-smidge nose, and began scribbling. Soon she found herself whispering to Vicki, “Isn't this fascinating?”

  “Fascinating. I always said virginity was overrated.”

  “What… oh, virginal sacrifices… I get it.” Brandy said. “I agree. The Halloween stuff is silly. I was hoping for more historic details, the executions, burials.”

  “Yeah, Bran.” Vicki shook her head. “That's what I meant.”

  Brandy ignored the sarcasm and returned to her notes. Meanwhile, Vicki sighed, yawned, and drifted toward the back of the group.

  Felix droned on. “It was upon this spot where the Templar's reign of terror came to a terrible but well deserved end.”

  Vicki wondered what she'd done to deserve this. Unable to pin-point the sin, she dropped the query and began to mentally list the dozen places she'd rather be. She came up with eight then realized, sadly, each had the same thing in common – you could smoke. The whole damned United States had stopped smoking. But she was at Castle Freedom. Viva la France. Surely this mausoleum had a corner into which she could duck?

  It was then Vicki felt a cheek against her flaxen hair, lips brushing her ear and, in a whisper she heard, “You appear nearly as bored as I, mon cher.”

  She turned, taking in the olive skinned speaker; the man Brandy had whispered looked like Don Juan. (“Don't look!”). Vicki looked now and saw brown-black eyes, a thin mustache, amazingly white teeth, in an expensive blue suit. “Excuse me?” She was buying time to catch her breath, though she hadn't realized she was breathless.

  “Forgive my rudeness. I merely said you appear as bored as I. My English is…” He waffled his hand fluttering manicured nails. “If I caused offense…?”

  “Not at all. And you're right, I am bored. When you've seen one medieval castle…” She hesitated and he laughed. Relieved, Vicki joined him.

  “Loup,” he said, introducing himself.

  “Victoria. My friends call me Vicki.”

  Loup Wimund took her offered hand. “Let's be friends, Vicki.”

  “It was here, messieurs et mesdames,” Felix thundered, with an animation unseen until now, “that Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order, and seven of his Temple knights were burned to death for their transgressions against God. For consorting with the Devil. From this spot, Francois de Raiis, head of Castle Freedom, as the flames ate away his body, shouted his curse of vengeance.”

  Brandy scribbled with relish.

  Felix clasped his hands behind him as if he were bound. He stared menacingly into the crowd with insane eyes and screamed, “You who murder us… know this. We shall not die! We shall return from the dead to exact our revenge upon you!”

  A nervous giggle from the crowd, a “Fek!”, one of the French women gasped aloud. The stick lady, with strategically aimed elbows, made her way to the frightened women's side offering comfort.

  “Revenge,” Felix continued mercilessly, “upon you… and your children…”

  The woman appeared near fainting. The others were, in their turns, unmoved, delighted, getting jabbed, and glowering.

  “… and your children's children!”

  Loup whispered in Vicki's ear. “And your children's, children's, children?”

  “And their kids,” she whispered back.

  Both laughed. It was lost on neither that their lips were nearly touching.

  Felix, monotone again, gestured. “If you will all… turn.” They did – to take in the gloomy chapel across the courtyard. “We continue. The Templars were renown for their signature round chapels.”

  It was an odd segue. The edifice looked like every chapel Brandy had ever seen; river stone, brick, mortar like the castle, scant windows (a few shuttered, most boarded over), three steps to the heavy front door, a bell tower, rising fifty or sixty feet into the air, looking 'added on' to the north (their left) corner. And, seen earlier, a balcony on the outer north wall. But it wasn't round and, being Brandy, she said so.

  “The original chapel was,” Felix explained, “but it, and its replacement, were destroyed. Finally a more traditional, less expensive chapel was erected. And added to over the years.”

  Felix led them in and out so quickly they might as well not have gone. Brandy's disappointment was nearing anger. Felix moved on – oblivious. He led an arc into the grass on the chapel's south side. “Your tour continues off the beaten trail or, if you will, off the courtyard onto the trail.”

  Lagging, Loup extended his hand. Vicki weighed the consequences of grasping it. What the hell. It was her vacation too. She took hold; surprised to find it rougher and delighted to find it stronger than she'd imagined. Hand-in-hand, Vicki and Loup followed after the tour.

  “Here rest the old dead of Castle Freedom and the countryside.”

  The small cemetery, south of the chapel, looked much like any graveyard; stone markers, teetering and weathered, some newer, polished marble and granite. It was, admittedly, spooky.

  “The old dead?” The fainter asked. The stick lady was still at her side.

  Felix nodded solemnly. “This is unused for some time. Today's dead are buried in the village cemetery.”

  “These graves are abandoned?” Brandy asked, pen poised.

  “There are no longer burials here. It is still tended by our caretaker.”

  “And the Templars? Are the Templars buried here?

  “There are several knights buried here, oui,” Felix said. “But not, I think, the ones you mean. You are referring to the knights of the curse? The executed knights? Their graves are further on.” He pointed toward a dark timber across a field to the east. “That is our destination… If you dare?”

  Amused, he started away. The tourists followed warily.

  They crossed the field of tall grasses, wild flower plants (with little in the way of flowers) and jutting boulders by a well-worn cart path. It sloped gradually down from the chapel for a hundred yards, inclined uphil
l for another hundred, and ended in a grassy berm before the timber. They mounted the berm and the burial place of the Templar knights came into view.

  It was a tiny, ancient cemetery, untended, forgotten. Weeds and autumn-browned wild flowers grew as tall as the rusted wrought-iron fence surrounding it. A raised stone sarcophagus sat inside the gate and, on the far, slightly uphill side, a second sarcophagus made the plot symmetrical. Bookended between the two were six other graves, at ground level, covered with heavy stone lids. Eight forlorn, overgrown tombs in all.

  Felix raised his hands to silence the nervous murmurs in the group. “Because of their crimes they could not, of course, be buried in the chapel cemetery. It is here, in unhallowed ground, where the Templar knights are interred. Whether or not they rest…?” He shrugged.

  “The ankh crosses engraved upon their tombs, Egyptian symbols of enduring life, signify the black gods to whom they paid homage. And, for those of you literate in Latin and French, the writings etched on their stones tell of their sins.”

  The tourists lined the fence leaning to see, and craning their necks to read, the graves. Seven of the lids were as described, chiseled inscriptions, coptic crosses, and the names and date (all the same) of death. Strangely, the eighth, the sarcophagus at the end of the plot, was devoid of these markings. A name and matching date of death decorated the lid but nothing more.

  Felix was relieved. The tourists had what they'd come for and, other than getting them back, his day was over. Then the dark-haired American girl began asking questions. And, grande Dieu, they were the real thing. Felix fielded several then, realizing he was in over his head, attempted to cut her short and move the group along.

  Brandy balked. “Wait a minute. You're leaving? Can't I go in?”

  “Go in?”

  “Yes. I'd like to see the graves up close. Make some rubbings of the inscriptions?” She rifled her monstrous purse looking for chalk and paper as evidence of intent.