Oblation: A Spine-Tingling Crime Thriller set in Small-Town California, page 28
For my hunting trips, I needed a third vehicle, so I pulled a small tan Honda Civic behind the RV. The car was so normal that people seldom took notice of it. This provided me with easy transportation, which I used to locate the next sacrifice. I created a space between the pull-down back seat and the trunk. The area extended about two feet into the trunk space, but I designed it to look just like the back of the seats. This provided me with a hollowed-out area between the backseat and the trunk where I could hide the children when transporting them. I learned that the compartment needed air conditioning after a young girl from Arizona died in the space during a particularly hot day. Once that was taken care of, I never had any other problems.
I called the funhouse exactly what it was: “Moloch’s Temple.” Clients entered the back of the semi and made their way down a small hallway. Projected on both walls was the scene from the movie Cabiria showing the sacrifice of the children and the people going crazy. Images of the people dancing as the children are fed into the fire of Moloch’s belly were accompanied by a cacophony of people shouting, children screaming, and discordant music bombarding the customers as they walked down the hall. This prepared them for what came next, a small room that was the center of the Temple. Here, looming over the people, was a ten-foot-tall statue of Moloch set behind a thin pane of Plexiglas. The statue’s arms extended through the Plexiglas over the area where the people stood. The broken chains at the wrist hung free in demonstration of a God that could not be contained. Smoke poured from its gaping mouth, open and waiting for the sacrifice. The smoke was pulled upward through an exhaust fan in the ceiling and out a chimney, but all the people could see was smoke rising up through the darkened space of the room. In front of the statue stood an automaton of the priest from the movie. He held in his hands the squirming figure of a child. The stomach of the statue of Moloch opened and closed, revealing real flames fed by a propane tank housed in a small cabinet behind the statue. The priest started out facing the people, holding up the child and shouting a prayer of offering delivered through high-quality speakers. Then the priest rotated toward the open flames. Just as he lowered the child toward the trapdoor, the flames would erupt through the open mouth of Moloch, causing the darkened room to become fully illuminated, blinding the spectators. An image of the child falling into the fire was projected onto the glass separating the people from the statue. The sacrificial image was accompanied by a special treat of my own creation, the sound of a child screaming in pain and horror. This recording came from my own personal collection and was a combination of three actual sacrifices merged into one recording. As a final touch, so the people could fully participate in the sacrifice, a blast of hot air was sent through the ventilation system along with the smell of burning flesh.
The people on the other side of the glass would gasp in horror at the sight of a child being sacrificed to this great God that devoured its victims, and they would often gag on the smell of burning flesh. Someone in the group would inevitably then give a nervous laugh, and everyone would move on through the rest of the Temple. Some laughed, while others would look back with an expression that said, “Surely I did not just see what I thought I saw.”
I was particularly proud of the Temple area of the show. It was all very Disney, and I spent a lot of money making it as real as possible. It was all done with lighting, projection, and precise timing. It was amazing to watch people’s reactions. Some laughed nervously. Others would place their hands over their mouth to stifle a cry. Some just stood and stared, and periodically someone would scream or cry. But no one ever had no reaction. That was the idea. I wanted to elicit a response. As long as it wasn’t laughter at the silliness of the funhouse, I was satisfied. Horror or fascination was good. What I really wanted was fascination. Fascination would lead people to seek out additional information about Moloch. Horror could elicit the same response, but horror can also lead to revulsion, which was not what I wanted.
The rest of the walk through the Temple provided a visual and oral history of the worship of Moloch from the Old Testament to today. It talked about how Moloch had been pushed out by the soft god of the Jews and Christians and showed proof of Moloch’s return to the world. A lot of it was visual projections of catastrophic events in the world overlaid with recorded reports. Global warming, the increasing and more powerful hurricanes, wildfires around the world, warming of the seas, melting of the polar ice caps. These were all proof that Moloch’s fire was returning to reclaim its rightful place. People were pulling away from the soft god of love and wanted the more powerful God of heat and fire. Global warming and fires were the most powerful proofs of this. I knew my sacrifices were having an effect. Every year the world got warmer, the hurricanes grew worse, and the wildfires larger. The fire of Moloch was spreading.
But I also used the Temple as a sacrificial temple. The biggest problem was the disposal of the body parts because while I could increase the heat inside the fire chamber, it was not hot enough to fully break down flesh and bone like a crematorium. Whenever a sacrifice was offered to Moloch, I would have to go in that night and clean it out. This was always a messy process because pieces of bone and flesh would remain inside the burn chamber and stick to and clog the gas piping. Cleaning and disposal could take up to three hours. I always did this in the early morning hours or in the late evening. Once the body parts themselves were removed, I would dispose of them in various places, never leaving a full body in any one place. I would drive down lonely county roads and dirt paths, depositing a body part here and another there. Never close enough to each other that someone could find one and then easily find another. After a while, I got pretty good at it, and while it was time-consuming, it was worth it to honor Moloch.
The Temple provided another pleasant, if unanticipated, benefit to my personal life. There is a group of women who are labeled “carnival groupies.” Every town has them. They show up shortly after we roll in, hanging out with the carnival workers, asking questions, and wanting to fit in. Periodically, one of the women would take a particular interest in the Temple and me. They never needed any wooing, and I did not have to take them out to dinner because it was all about the sex. Initially, I brought them into the RV for the night. But I quickly discovered that they had a particular interest in the Temple and had the desire to have sex inside it. I was more than willing to oblige their interest and even rigged up handcuffs that could be attached to the chains coming off the idol’s arms, so Moloch could participate as well. After each worship session, the three of us were satisfied. None of the women ever complained or protested, and a few returned the next night or when the carnival returned the following year. I knew Moloch was pleased because I was pleased.
Because I wanted to reach the youth, social media needed to be an important tool for getting the message of Moloch out. I developed a website as well as a Facebook and Instagram account. I tried TikTok but could never figure it out. The website examines the history of the worship of Moloch and how Moloch is talked about in the Bible and in other ancient cultures. The other part of the website examines events across the globe and offers these as proof of Moloch’s emergence into the world. But most people don’t take it seriously. The comment section is filled with ridicule. Christians get on the site and accuse me of devil worship and ask if I practice child sacrifice. I never respond.
My Facebook and Instagram accounts are primarily promotional for the Temple of Moloch. Where it is going to be and when it will be open. I give people glimpses into the Temple by showing them videos of the automaton sacrifice, the clips from Cabiria, and the sections of the Temple giving proof of Moloch’s action in the world. I set up the account to make it seem fun but also to draw people in. I want them to think about Moloch, explore more about him, and eventually embrace him. Here too, I receive comments and insults from the ignorant and those taken in by Jehovah.
My web presence has some followers, but only a few hundred. It is too painfully slow and way too small. I need to do something. I know Moloch desires something greater, but I am not sure what to do.
I know that Moloch is being incarnated back into the world because of the various natural events happening as a result of my sacrifices, but I also know that it is time to take it to the next level, but I’m not sure how. I wait for almost two years before receiving a sign from Moloch. Finally, it comes in a form I never expected. When it does happen, I know it is time to reveal Moloch to the whole world.
FORTY
Then it happens. The greatest revelation of Moloch’s power that I have ever seen. A virus rises out of China and sweeps across the world, causing panic, shutdowns, and economic uncertainty. Like everyone else, I sat in front of the TV at the beginning of the year, marveling at what was happening in Wuhan, China, and figuring this was a Chinese problem. But quickly I, along with others, realized that given how interconnected the world is, COVID could not be contained. One day while watching cable news, I heard the same bimbo newscaster who used the death of my brother to slingshot her career onto the national stage refer to the illness as a coronavirus. At that moment, I recognized Moloch’s hand. Corona–sun–heat–fire–Moloch. Moloch manifested once more into the world, but the world, in its ignorance, fails to recognize him. I see it, and I know it, but how am I supposed to get others to see it?
I search the web. No one is making the connection. I check my social media, but no one is saying, “Look, one more example of Moloch.” All I hear is silence. By March, people go into lockdown. People are spending their time indoors, surfing the web, watching television, and looking for answers, but they are not being told the truth. I know the truth.
I post my revelation to the website but get shouted down by unbelievers. Because the carnival has stopped traveling, my social media sites are silent even though here, too, I publish proof after proof. I post an account from a friend who says that when she had the virus and couldn’t taste anything, all she so wanted to do was taste and feel something, so she put hot sauce on everything. She could not taste it, but she could feel the heat. Even in our foods, Moloch is being revealed. But like shouting into the wind, the message is lost.
When the carnival shuts down, we are on a southern swing through Georgia. We’re told to simply go home. They will contact us when the carnival can resume. But I have no home, so I decide to set up camp right where I am. I trust in Moloch and that he has brought me here. I settle into a medium-sized town in South Georgia called Valdosta that sits off Interstate 75, close to the Florida border. I find an RV park just off the interstate, and the owner lets me park the semi at the back of the lot for a minimal fee. I settle in for what I assume is only going to be a couple of months. The RV Park provides Wi-Fi, so I keep up on the news and continue to post in an attempt to convince the people about the truth regarding the virus.
By June, it becomes clear that my savings will not last much longer. While I have invested the money from my parents’ property, along with some of the money I earned while on the road, I cannot afford to do nothing for much longer. I find a job at a local timber company cutting logs prior to them being trucked to the local mill. This allows me to pay my everyday bills without having to dip into my savings. It also frees up my evenings, so I can devote them to research and writing. And I continue to hunt.
I cannot stop my sacrifices to Moloch, not now. Not at the moment when his full manifestation is so close. I can’t stop. But being in one place means that I have to roam further and further away from Valdosta to find suitable offerings. Twice I cross into Florida, once taking a small boy from right out of his stroller as his mother is inside a store making a purchase. A small shaggy dog was tied to the stroller to protect the child, but a dog treat eliminated any threat. Two months later, I travel to Tallahassee and find a young girl left playing alone on the sidewalk in front of a house. I’m amazed at how easy it is to find and take unaccompanied children, but I take it as a sign from Moloch that I am doing his will.
I vary the sex, age, and race of the children I take. I do not want anyone who might do a wider search for missing children to see a pattern. But my breakthrough moment comes when Moloch guides my feet, and I take a trip north to Augusta. I did not go there to find a child. I wanted to see the home of the Masters Golf Tournament. I had grown up watching the tournament on TV. I played a little golf and, for a while, dreamt of being good enough to play on the PGA but realized fairly quickly that I did not have the temperament or the money that allowed me to become a professional golfer. But the golfing bug took me, and I continued to play as much as possible and religiously watched the Masters every year.
Now that I was in Georgia, I figured, why not go up and see Augusta? When I arrive at the Augusta Golf Club, I am informed that because the club is private, I will not be permitted to enter. Not a complete surprise. I drive around the perimeter of the course, but views of the course are completely blocked off by fences, hedges, trees, and private homes. The club wants to keep out the riff-raff. They don’t want the public to come into their private club. I decide to stay the night, paying cash at a local fleabag hotel. It has internet access, so I just start doing some research about some of the local members of Augusta. I find a man, Jonathan Burgess, who boasts that his family has been a member of Augusta for over a hundred years, and he has two children, one boy and one girl, ages six and four. I recognize Moloch’s hand. I am not here by chance. I know it’s a risk, but I know Moloch wants one of them. Moloch wants Mr. Burgess to know vulnerability and loss. I want him to feel out of control. I want him to see the uncertainty that most of the world lives with every day and that all the hedges and fences can’t protect him. But most of all, I want him to experience the power of Moloch in the world. Burgess’s little corner of the world where he flaunts his ancestry is nothing compared to the long history and reach of Moloch. He cannot hide behind the hedge of his private club.
The information regarding Mr. Burgess and his family is so easily accessible on the Internet. I snoop on the Facebook page of Mr. Burgess’s wife, Melissa. She is planning a trip to Savannah the very next day. Apparently, they don’t believe that the coronavirus affects the rich, so they do not have to isolate themselves. Little do they realize that Moloch is bigger than the virus. I search the county’s public records and find their home address. I know what I am going to do. I set the alarm for 5:00 am and settle into bed. I sleep the sleep of the dead and wake refreshed and ready for a day that I only hope will be as great as I think it will be.
By seven o’clock, I have located the house. I’m sure that every house in this exclusive neighborhood has security cameras, so I park along the tree-lined street far enough away from any of the houses so as not to draw attention to myself. The Civic doesn’t fit in with the cars parked in the driveways or making their way along the well-paved road but sitting behind the wheel sipping my coffee and eating a tasteless croissant from Burger King, I look like a day laborer just waiting to start his day. A jogger passes by and offers a friendly wave, and I recognize him: Mr. Burgess. Keep running because you are going to need all your strength for what is coming your way. I don’t have to wait much longer.
I see the Mercedes SUV pull out of the driveway just after eight. Melissa Burgess heads down the street in the opposite direction and does not even notice the beat-up Honda that waits five seconds before pulling away from the curb and follows her out of the neighborhood. She avoids the crowded Starbucks and pulls into the drive-thru of a small coffee shop sitting at the corner of a strip mall south of the city. Give her credit. She is willing to support a local merchant. I pull into a parking lot across the street and watch as she pays for her drink and places a tip into the jar sitting on the ledge just outside the drive-thru window. When she turns onto the street, I catch a glimpse of a small head through the back-seat window. I don’t know if it is the boy or the girl. It doesn’t matter. I feel a twinge of remorse that I will be destroying the child’s life, but then I think about her mother and father and their claim to a status above everyone else. No, this is not about the child. It’s about revenge and Moloch. “It is necessary,” I whisper under my breath. But what does Moloch think about revenge? Is revenge a pure motivation? I think about all those years Moloch has been pushed into the background. I know from their Facebook posts that the Burgesses are members of this elite religious system that has kept Moloch hidden. Yes, revenge is a legitimate motivation.
She heads out of Augusta, sticking to the county roads and state highways that twist along the Savannah River toward the coast. She’s obviously not in a hurry, and it is a relaxing ride through beautiful green hills that will eventually give way to the flat and bleak coastal plain of Georgia. About an hour out of town, she pulls through the opening of a tall chain-link fence that surrounds a small shabby gas station where her Mercedes stands out among the pickups and rusted-out beaters littering the parking lot. Most appear to be abandoned, and I wonder why she would ever pull into a place like this. U-Haul trucks and trailers are stacked in a neat row along one side of the rock parking area, while a low metal-sided storage facility with orange garage-style doors butts up against the fencing on the other side. She pulls up to a gas pump, and I swing my car around to the right side of the parking area, squeezing myself between a 1970-something Ford pickup and the cab of a semi whose driver is probably sleeping off a long night’s drive. I watch as she releases her seatbelt and turns around to look at the child in the back seat. It takes a few seconds, and I can’t tell if she is simply looking at the child or talking with the child she is about to lose. She finally gets out of the vehicle and goes inside the small concrete block building because the gas pumps are so old that they don’t accept credit cards. I watch as she disappears behind the dingy swinging glass doors.
