Chapter Two
---
This was not what Candyman had expected.
The cities in the modern world were like machines, factories. Huge ugly buildings, guzzling mechanical transports, the accumulative noise of all the people talking, the metal and stone walkways. That was what the world had become nary a century after Daniel Robitaille had died. Forests of concrete and machinery.
What he found himself in, however, reminded him much more of the world he had lived in. Dirt ground, wood buildings, horses and carriages, guns everywhere. The people looked much more like those from his original time as well, and all of them were white.
He had seen a number of the fools watching them as he had prepared to kill them, to punish them for thinking they could insult him. Stories like those of the theatre, but not on a stage. Rather, they were within some strange device or another, to be watched within the comfort of a confined space. A play captured in memory, like words on paper.
"Move-ees," they had called them. Moving pictures. Such fascinating things! How far humanity had advanced after his death! Yes, that was where they were now on that Earth. He and all the rest had arrived on a move-ee creation. Here these humans were, pretending to be people from an era like his, hoping to capture another memory safe from those direct prying eyes.
Such a shame it was, that this new art could now never come to life. He didn't hate art; how could he, when he could never escape it? But just like those who called his name and reminded him of his existence, they had to suffer. Why, these people probably mocked him and all the rest the most! This world needed to be taught a lesson. Blood would have to be shed.
And what was blood for, if not for shedding?
He vanished from the mass of the other murders, these "slashers," and reappeared on the real killing grounds. Two men with rifles instantly greeted him. They turned pale almost immediately, shouting terrified gibberish and raising their rifles at his chest. He merely smiled.
The two bullets tore through his chest, at the same time that the blazing lights illuminated him. It was only for a moment, but he knew that, in that moment, his legend in this world was born. He could hear the buzzing begin a second after the roars of their guns had died. Beneath his coat, his body started to shift. As he saw the actors' expressions change, he couldn't help but laugh. Even to him, it was like the din of Hell, a shuddering blackness. He couldn't care less, though, for what else could fit something like him? It was a laugh that would haunt the nightmares of these peoples' children for a century or more.
Just as fast as those bullets, his right arm lashed out. The hook tore one of their throats right open. A gust of red coated both his face and that of the man's companion. For a split second, the man flinched when the blood hit him, his eyes shutting in terror. A split second was all he needed to reappear behind him.
"What-?" the man gasped, right before he drove his hook into his head. Chunks of the skull exploded outward along with a stream of blood, forever smearing the ground in the tale of horrible murder. He stopped right before the hook could burst out of his forehead. Quickly, he tore his hook out out through the top of his head, splitting it wide open and revealing the ruins of his brain.
Something slid through his torso. Casually, he pressed his hook against the blade and jammed it back with what appeared to be total ease. The blade was immediately forced out, and a cry came from directly behind him. He swiftly turned to see a white boy with a rifle in his hands, and on that rifle, a bayonet. The boy didn't appear to be older than sixteen. So it was that the death of the youth would build so many disturbing stories to come.
"
No! Please, don't-!" the boy tried to beg, as he walked up to him. It was no use; it never was. He placed his hook upon his lips, so as to tell him to be silent, for now, he would sleep. Like the merciless hand of God, Man's greatest creation, he dove forward and struck the boy. His hook carved through his stomach, revealing the secrets his body held within, and continued up to his sternum. With a shuddering wail, the boy shut his eyes and covered the wound with his hand, knowing that this was his end.
He saw a larger group of similarly armed men charge toward him. All of them were frantically shouting, but as if it were fate, one of their commands was carried directly to him by the wind.
"
Put that brute down! Kill that n***** good!"
Memories of Daniel Robitaille swirled in his head. A mob; torture meant to deprive one of humanity; agony, pure and unending agony. And those words. How they had been shouted into the man's face, final insults as he died like a common criminal...
With a look of disapproval, he vanished and reappeared behind the group. For a few scant seconds, he basked in their confusion, cherishing their horror at his disappearance. Like a pack of wolves, he pounced on his prey. He made sure to carve through their backs and torsos, so he could hear them scream like swine as they were slaughtered. Blood, bone, and organs greeted him as he did so, embedding their final moments of terror in the fabric of this world. When there were three of them left, they fell to their knees and dropped their rifles. They sobbed, and they too begged. Clearly, they knew of the wrath they had incurred, and were perhaps at least expecting a damning speech before they were executed.
He would not grant them even the tiniest of such mercies. His hook tore their heads to pieces, moving like lightning as it created red storm clouds.
Several more bullets exited through his chest. Turning, he came to face an even larger regiment of these people. Fear was obviously written on their faces, within their eyes. Still, they stood their ground.
Now was the time for a new work of art.
He pulled open his heavy fur coat to reveal his chest and torso. Or at least, what was left of it. Bees clung to the ribs and spine, the withered bones caked in old blood. All of the men lowered their guns; their mouths hung wide open. A number of them turned and fled for their lives, and all around him, there was the sound of shrieking.
He closed his eyes just as he opened his mouth. Soon, the sound of buzzing overcame the sound of screaming, as an endless swarm of ethereal bees began to blanket the sun.
---
His day had been going quite swimmingly. Yes, Lincoln had made the war final with his call for troops, but that was simply the most obvious outcome. Just a few minutes earlier, he had been utterly elated, entertaining the likelihood of Arkansas, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia joining them in revolt. Yes, they would most certainly draw the line at Lincoln's further aggravations, but then there was the possibility of Kentucky and Missouri realizing that their heart beat the same rhythm as they. Oh, if they could gain such brothers! They would be unstoppable! They would be marching on Washington within a month, the war would practically be theirs to lose. The Northern bastards would not stand a fraction of a chance. Yes, his day had been going quite swimmingly.
Had.
Just like that, all possible plans were thrown into total disarray. Cries of fear had preceded the mass firing of guns, which had preceded the absolute chaos. Now, as Jefferson Davis rushed through the halls of the capitol building, he wished he already had six more states on his side. A million ideas ran through his head at the speed of lightning. Who was attacking? Was it Northern saboteurs? A pro-Union revolt? Bloodthirsty slaves on the rampage? Perhaps the Union had already build a sizable force in preparation, and Lincoln's demand was simply a ruse. If that were the case, then he sincerely hoped God would curse every man, woman, and child in Tennessee with pox and nausea for such a sin.
As he entered the main stair hall, Davis was suddenly blocked by LeRoy Pope Walker, his new nation's Secretary of War. Walker placed his hands upon the President's shoulders and gripped them as if he meant to crush him, and then gently, almost reassuringly, began to push him back.
"President Davis," Walker began to say, "I can assure you that, though there is a situation, it is under control. Now, you do not-"
"
Under control?!" Davis barked. "People are screaming and shooting as if the Devil himself has come to this capitol! My capitol, the capitol of this new nation! This building's staff is running all over this place, and I have been told that a stagecoach is waiting for me! If this situation is under control, then why must I leave my capitol? Why does it seem like everyone here has gone made?!"
"President Davis, please," Walker said. His voice only then began to strain, as he spoke with heavier breathing, as if though he was becoming exhausted. "You must understand, we are quelling the crisis even as we speak! Our militia forces are repelling the enemy and taking back what little ground they had lost in the first place. There is-"
"There is what?! A difference between the situation being under control, which is what you had previously told me, and a situation being placed under control? Certainly, there is a difference! Even if the crisis is being lessened, why does that mean I must leave? Who is even attacking us? Remove your hands from me, and give me some answers!"
"A reasonable demand, Jefferson!" a certain voice growled. Alexander H. Stephens strode into the hall, his weak face almost comical in how outraged it appeared. Behind him was Postmaster General John Reagan and Secretary of the Treasury Christopher Memminger, all of them followed by several local militia soldiers.
"We have all been summoned to our stagecoaches, LeRoy," Stephens demanded, "so we believe it to be only fair that you tell us precisely what is happening here. Since you are the Secretary of War, I will ask you this question, a simple one. Who is attacking this city? Who are we fighting?" Walker looked at them as if though it should have been obvious, as if though he had no need to answer. He attempted to laugh for a second. Right from the start, though, they could see the desperation in his eyes. As he saw them stand there and wait for an answer, he realized that, even as chaos surrounded them, they would gladly die just to know that little piece of information. It was at that point that all pretenses of control vanished.
"I...I do not know," Walker meekly answered. "I wish we knew. But we do not. All we know is that our people are being slaughtered out there by...
something."
"You...you
do not know?" Davis slowly asked, his face frozen in shock as he crept toward Walker. "Our American capitol is under attack, on the same day the Union has declared war on us. The people of this city, decent Americans, are shedding their blood to such an extent that this government must abandon them! And here you are, telling me that
you do not even know who we are fighting?!"
"Damn this, LeRoy!" Memminger roared. "Have you no dignity? Are you too afraid to go and see for yourself who this force is?"
"Who are you to accuse me of cowardice?!" Walker cried. "Do you never fear for your life, Christopher? I had already sent a number of men out to find the answer to that question! None of them have returned!" He then stopped to take a deep breath, his nostrils flared, before he continued. The terror was clear in his voice. "Mallory himself set out to find the answer, this one awful piece of information. I told him not to do it. I can only presume he has laid down his life for his country."
Stephens attempted to tackle Walker at that. Even though two of the militia troops easily restrained him, nothing could hold back his anger. "You bastard! You damned fool and coward! If I were you, I would have knocked him out cold! How could you simply allow the Secretary of our Navy to die like this?! You are easy to replace; Mallory was not!"
"I beg your pardon?" Walker raised his fists, ready to show Stephens why he held his position. He was only stopped when Davis ran over and gripped Walker's shoulders as firmly as he had his.
"Enough! All of you!" he yelled. "While this is a truly massive loss, it is as fate decided! Clearly, this is some hardy foe if we must abandon Montgomery. Perhaps, as we escape with what remains of our government, we can finally see who this force is. But it is now obvious that we must go! If only so our nation may continue living, even as so many out there die for us. Do you all understand that? Our people are placing themselves within harm's way so that, even as they perish, America may yet live! They ask nothing more from us, so we must not-"
"...What is that sound?" Reagan suddenly asked. "Does anyone else hear that? By God, it sounds just like-"
"...Bees," Memminger finished, with a hint of confusion. "The buzzing of bees. Sounds like thousands of them." The moment he said that, a mass of darkness suddenly attached itself to the windows, darkening the capitol building.
Just a few seconds later, the buzzing was joined by the sound of straining, cracking glass.
---
When it was not awake, it dreamed of bloodshed. Righteous bloodshed. The guilty were damned, and under its claws, they met their punishment. The guilty always screamed, begged for mercy, pleaded that they had done nothing wrong. But if it had been summoned to punish them, then how had they done nothing wrong? It never went after those who had lived their lives free of sin. It only wet its claws with the blood of those who deserved it, and so it knew that their tears and their pleading were naught but lies.
Sometimes, it would make those dreams come true. Someone somewhere scorned would come looking for it, demanding that their transgressors be punished. And it always obliged. It was only meant to kill, and it loved such an existence. It could not imagine having such a purpose and not enjoying it to the fullest. It was the executioner, nothing more, nothing less.
One day, however, as it hibernated, its dreams had been interrupted. Images, images of another world. A world where the guilty ran amok, the innocent unable to do anything but sob as they drowned in rivers of their own blood. Those who sinned against their neighbor were utterly free to do so, and those who were supposed to be in power were powerless to stop it. It was a world screaming for justice, even as justice was dying of a thousand cuts. It was a world where it did not exist.
Would that have been enough to awaken it on its own? It did not know, for as the nightmare subsided, he was awakened. Not by any wronged human, though, but by something else. A grotesque mockery of humanity, an exaggeration of their every last cursed desire. He still remembered the leather clad entity's greeting, as it rose from its long slumber:
"I know of what you have seen. I have laid my eyes upon it as well. There is a reason I have come for you. Arise, and bask in the blood of this world's foolishness."
It complied, of course, but not just because that creature had summoned it. It had found its opportunity to come to that dreadful world, and grind every last injustice into the dirt. Soon, it had found that they were not alone, that so many more had seen this den of sin. All of them hungered for its carcass, thirsted for its blood, but it that, above all others, it would enjoy this annihilation.
Now, as the people of this world prayed to some god that did not exist, the vengeful beast known as Pumpkinhead knew its time had arrived. It roared a challenge to the debased insects of this world, and charged straight ahead for the kill. For it was vengeance, it was justice, and nothing would stop it until every last human who had done wrong was smeared upon the canvas of the earth.
---
Thomas Marston was out of breath by the time they had made it to the town center. He had tripped several times on the way here, so fast they had been forced to run and so crowded were they. He cursed as he saw how filthy his clothes had become. Not even a uniform, but damn it, how could anyone take them seriously when they covered in dirt and grass?
Like the rest of the men in the 2nd Regiment, he had been at Fort Morgan when they had finished their training and organization. His company had come back to Montgomery just a day after news had broken out that Fort Sumter was under fire.
Good, he had thought.
Let 'em hear us scream when we show them who the real America is, on that battlefield.
Like most of the men from Company D, he was from Clarke County. The company had received orders to report to Montgomery, as it became clear that the Union and his nation would be at each others' throats. When they had arrived, they had been greeted with news of official war due to Lincoln's attempt at further meddling. The celebrations seemed like they could have gone on for days...
...Until the sound of gunfire and screaming had stopped everything dead. Their Captain, A.R. Lankford, had immediately ordered them to converge upon the town center, and with all haste. They had followed his orders without question, but Thomas knew they were all wondering the same questions. Who was attacking them? How had this enemy made it to Montgomery without any warning? Why now? All they knew was that, whoever it was, they would have to pay in their blood. That much was certain.
As they came upon the town center, though, he realized that his frustration with how dirty his clothes had become was rather selfish. All round them, buildings were burning, people were stampeding over each other, horses were crushing crowds to death, and people were dying in pools of their own blood. It was like a scene from Revelation, as they found themselves in the midst of complete chaos.
And there was also the laughter. Oh God, that laughter. It clawed at their ears, at the same time the fresh gusts of blood clawed at their eyes. It was the sound of unbridled madness. Pure, inhuman evil. He was sure that, if this was Revelation come to life, then that was the sound of Hell's numerous legions.
"Alright, you lot!" Captain Lankford barked over the din. "Form up, and make four firing lines! One prone, one squatting, one crouching, one standing! Now! Hurry up, get into those lines!" The company scrambled as it attempted to form a wall of four firing lines, all of them shoving each other aside as they tried to get into their learned positions. Making his way to the back where he would stand, Thomas saw...some
thing make its way past the crowd of maddened citizens, casting aside several mutilated corpses. A long, slightly curved blade was tightly gripped within its right hand. Fitting, seeing as to how huge this thing was. It was absolutely massive, standing at far over six feet, its body rippling with unnatural muscle. As it moved toward them, its legs were like tree trunks, covered by some sort of odd pants and truly massive black boots. What really burned its image into Thomas' mind, though, was that head. The skin looked like it had decayed a long time ago, while the face was hidden by some kind of barbaric mask, a white disk covered in holes and three striking red scars. He shuddered to even think about what it might be hiding.
Captain Lankford raised his rifle, and aimed right at the thing's chest. "
Go back to the Hell you came from, child of a hundred abominations!" he roared before firing directly into the thing's chest. It did not even flinch. In fact, if anything, it only quickened its pace. For the first time, they saw fear in Lankford's eyes, as he slowly backed away and tried to reload his gun as fast as he could. Thomas and the rest of the company stood frozen in terror, realizing that perhaps this was Revelation come to life, in more ways than just metaphor.
That was when they heard the roar. Everyone-even the masked thing, Thomas noticed-turned to where the roar had come from. Just behind the bank to the company's left. A shorter, weaker roar preceded the sound of exploding wood, as the whole bank shook. Now he was certain that the city was under attack by Hell itself, and if the rest of the demons were like that masked thing...
"
REORIENT YOURSELVES! NOW!" Lankford cried. As the Captain turned his gun to the bank and desperately finished reloading it, Thomas saw that the masked thing had moved on, its focus now on other militia troops and citizens of the city. Why-
The front of the bank burst outward. They were all showered with splinters and nails to varying extents, but at the front of their mass, Thomas saw two men fall. One of them was bleeding profusely from a wound on his head, while the other had a large chunk of wood stuck in his throat. The moment they hit the ground, they were still.
Another massive roar. They were finally able to see just what had come for them next, and they regretted it with all their hearts. This demon was even taller than the previous one, taller than many smaller pines. Its skin was a deep, muddy brown, wrinkled and withered with the illusion of age. The monster was naked, but it was impossible to say if it was a man or woman demon. The four fingers and three toes ended in long, terrible claws, long as a huge knife and sharper. A tail extended from its lower back, and its shoulders were broad and downright alien, knotted bones bulging from where they met the arms. Its rib cage nearly jutted right out, and was almost the entire torso. Worst of all, however, was that head. It was elongated and bulbous, like a corpse bloated in the heat. Where there should have been a nose, there were only two thin slits. The eyes were milky white, and still they pierced the men through and through. Saliva flowed from its growling mouth, a mouth filled with bared fangs that would put even the most viscous wolf to shame.
The demon surged forward, killing two men within seconds of each other. The first had his entire face torn off his skull with a single swipe of its claws. The man next to him had his guts spilled with another swipe, before it ripped them out and snapped his neck with them.
"M-men...
MEN! MEN IN THE F-FRONT! O-o...OPEN FIRE!"
The men in the front obliged their Captain, sending their bullets right into the demon's body. It simply grinned as the little chunks of metal bounced off its hide. Two more of Company D's troops fell. One had his entire head sent flying with a punch, like a broken red pumpkin sent soaring through the air. The other was also decapitated, his head removed when the demon spun faster than their eyes could keep up, its tail beheading him.
They had spend less than five minutes here, but Thomas already knew this was a hopeless battle. He had seen what they were up against; they had
all seen! Demons, abominations that did not even notice their bullets. And how they killed! There was no way they could even hope to contain this foe, much less defeat them. They were no match for this.
I know when a fight ain't worth it, he thought.
I agreed to fight men, not monsters. He looked around, and saw a young girl on her knees. She was sobbing, the tears mingling with the blood that clung to her. She was cradling something in her arms, and next to her were two dead, brutalized adults.
Someone had to do something. A child could not just be left to die here in this Hell, and Thomas had no intentions of giving his life on this hopeless butcher's battlefield. He knew what he had to do.
Shoving the other men aside with sharp elbows and the butt of his rifle, he ran to get the girl to some safety. Once he was free of the company, he strapped his rifle over his back again and broke into a sprint to get to the child before anyone or anything else could.
"
MARSTON!" Lankford shouted. "
YOU GET BACK OVER HERE! I SWEAR, I'LL HAVE YOU HANGED FROM THE HIGHEST TREE!"
Thomas only looked back once. In his head, he laughed and thought,
No need for that. If I stayed, we would all be dead however this demon wants it.
He made it to where the little girl was. She screamed and fell back, bringing the thing in her arms to her chest. A new sobbing was heard, and he saw that she was carrying a mere baby.
"M-m-my, p-p-parents...th-they're, they're d-dead..." she tried to tell him.
"I know," he said, as softly as he could. He easily picked her up; the baby's sobs began to increase in intensity. "Come on, we are leaving. This place is not safe for you. For any of us."
"B-but, w-what about m-m-my b-brother?..."
"Someone will take good care of you and your brother, once we find somewhere far from here," he tried to assure her. "I promise."
He spotted a stagecoach just a few buildings over from the capitol building. Obviously, it was waiting for someone important. They would probably never come. Once they had made it, he pushed the girl and her baby brother toward the waiting guard.
"Get them in there," Thomas told him.
"Hey, now wait just a minute!" the guard growled. "You're not-!"
"I don't care who this is meant for!" Thomas shouted. "The three of us are leaving! You want to wait for a dead passenger, and die here yourself? Go ahead, but these children and I have no business here! Do you understand?"
The guard and the driver simply looked at him with bitter regret, before the former sat the girl inside with her brother. Thomas then climbed in, while the guard ran over to where the coach gun was.
"What destination do you have in mind?" the driver asked Thomas.
"Just take us far, far away from here," he told him. "If you have to take us to the damn Union to do so, fine by me." The driver nodded and began whipping the horses. As they took off, the screams and deranged laughter continued to echo behind them. Thomas hoped he was right that he could get these children to somewhere safe, if anywhere still was at this time...
---
This was not right.
When he had seen the images of that other world, Pinhead had seen something roughly equal to the technology of the humans of the Earth he knew. Devices such as automobiles, heavy repeating guns, tanks, and various flying machines. Not to mention that their clothing styles were similar in how casual and simple they were.
There was none of that here. Simplistic rifles that barely scratched the more powerful slashers (much less himself), the animals known as horses, wooden buildings, and heavy rustic clothing. Perhaps they had simply been sent to an isolated part of that world. That was his original thought. After all, they couldn't have seen everything that defenseless world had to offer, right?
As he sifted through the minds of these people, however, everything started to come apart. These humans still practiced a system of commerce dependent on agriculture by way of other human beings, those of black skin in contrast to their white. They all still believed that these black skinned humans were inferior to them, on a truly massive societal level that he'd noticed the humans of the other Earth did not. They did not know of any technology such as automobiles and airplanes; indeed, those words did not even exist within their minds. What struck him as most peculiar, however, was the nation state that these humans associated themselves with. They considered themselves the citizens of that polity known as the Confederate States of America, which had rebelled against the most powerful nation on the other Earth, the United States of America, over a century ago.
Pinhead knew that the humans had another invention, though. Something they called "films." Moving pictures on a screen. Could it be that this was just a new film being created by these humans? That was his next guess. Admittedly, it was strange that those associated with this film would be so deeply attached to their role that they would think like the character they were to portray, but then, some humans were harder to examine than others. He would certainly need time with these.
As the chains held the screaming man in place, Pinhead decided to put that theory to the test. He reached deep into his mind, finding it filled with such petty and selfish information, nothing but personal opinions and ideas of the self. It was certainly an interesting specimen.
Now come here, young lady. I have noticed you are the most studious of the house servants...If that Lincoln bastard wins, I'll pay for the revolution myself! Mark my words, I have enough money to do so!...No long-haired man is going to take my property from me! Would he like it if I came to take his house, his livestock, his wife and children?...Gentlemen, I would like to offer the year 1861 a toast! For now, as we-
1861.
He tore the man into eight pieces. His tongue wiped away the blood on his lips and jaw. Now, something was not just wrong. Something had gone wrong. Something in the Tall Man's process had malfunctioned. Somehow, they had been sent to the Earth they had seen, and yet, they had not. Rather than the present time of that world, they had been sent to how it had been in the year 1861, in that Confederate States of America.
Pinhead suddenly smiled. It was not what they had asked for, but he could not really argue with this. He already knew what the humans of the present were like. Why not study those of the past, though? Those of the year 1861? Oh, yes, this would be most interesting. And he knew right away that the slashers would appreciate the chance to slaughter those of another time, just to see how different the victims were.
Leviathan, blessed be your name. For only you could grant me such a blessed opportunity...