The Key of the Cypher Flux

  The Key of the Cypher Flux

  A Justin Ames Mystery

  R L Delaney

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  © 2020 PureRead Ltd

  PureRead.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

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  Prologue

  Nothing suggested that anything was wrong that morning.

  The sky was cloudless and bright, and the wind had lost its bite. It had been the last frost date, spring had washed in like the tide, and the weather was mild and balmy. Some daring people even stepped out of their houses without coats, and farmers were confidently sniffing the air while looking over their fields, already envisioning their golden harvests. Bees, still stiff from their winter's clustering, flew out of their hives in search of luscious spring flowers with their life-giving nectar. Birds were cheering the sun with happy, uncomplicated chatter and flew back and forth with tiny twigs or other attributes to make new palaces for their soon-to-be born chicks, and innocent, furry white lambs were gamboling in the green pastures and hills that surrounded Dewsbury.

  Life could not be more beautiful, radiant and peaceful.

  And yet, not all was well.

  Looks can be deceiving, for although the darkness of the cold winter days was now a thing of the past and new life burst forth at every corner, there was a sweltering and oppressive corruption brewing. Sure, it was still small, and mostly hidden from sight, but even a small evil has the power to contaminate vast areas with the uncanny ability to spread itself like a sickening virus.

  Dewsbury had by now fully recovered from the pollution that had been poured out by the Shadow Walkers and their dreaded Desastrotrax. But a new evil, unbeknownst to most, was seething and simmering in the basements of this world, in a place void of beauty and surrounded by nothing but dust, thorn bushes and sandstorms.

  This shady unscrupulousness had hatched itself in a most surprising place, namely in Bitter Grog Chapel. One would think a chapel would be the very place from which righteousness and light would burst forth, but nothing could be further from the truth. This chapel had been constructed years before Dewsbury could even be found on the map, built by a friar who carried the unusual name of Cipher Flux, and he named the chapel after a spring nearby that brought forth bitter, poisonous waters. This friar, however, was not much of a friar at all, but carried within himself a wicked heart that was as black as coal, and he never meant for the chapel to become a monument of religious glory. Rather, he sought for a place where he could freely wallow and revel in all sorts of unspeakable wickedness, and although he tried to appear religious on the outside to avoid persecution, (he even conducted Sunday worship services for a few unbelieving local farmers) he became a master in the dark arts.

  But Cipher Flux met his nemesis a few years later, when Dewsbury was founded by the famous Archibald Stennings, somewhere around 1835. The actual records seemed to have vanished, but historians claim the chapel was most likely destroyed in those days. Word goes that an angry mob, guided by a certain Reverend Øivind Balstad, an immigrant from Norway, decided they no longer wanted to live in close proximity to a place of such debauchery. Right around New Years’ Day, Øivind Balstad and a group of wild farmers from his congregation, armed with hammers, pitchforks and anger, marched out to the place, and except for the stables, they practically flattened the chapel to the ground. Cipher Flux never rebuilt the place, and although there is no clear record of what happened to the mischievous, impish villain, most believe he died in the stable shortly after, broken in pride and health. After these happenings, nobody ever came near the place again.

  Farmers left the area and moved to the more fertile parts of the land and a deep spiritual darkness settled over the whole area. Most people believed the place was doomed. Some argued it was a gateway to the netherworld, while others claimed the place was haunted by ghosts, a story that became more accepted after two teen boys in the early 1900’s insisted they had actually seen the ghost of Cipher Flux floating over the rubble. The two lads had been terrified, as Cipher Flux' evil grin haunted them for years to come, which had made their story all the more credible. Thus the place was left to itself and had since become the habitation of rats, scorpions and thistles, and its name was only used by old ladies and ignorant educators to scare youngsters into obedience. "If you don't behave I am going to drop you off at Bitter Grog Chapel."

  But no kid was ever dropped off there. No self-respecting person would ever go near the place, and nobody cared.

  And because of that, it was the perfect refuge place for all those individuals that were on the run from the law or needed to stay out of sight for whatever reason. Thieves, crooks and even murderers found shelter there, and so it was no wonder that after the Shadow Walkers’ wicked attempt to take over Dewsbury had failed, this was the place for the Shadow Walkers to secretly meet.

  That had started over a year ago, the day after Sternfoot’s defeat, when Principal Rigby had told those still loyal to the cause to regroup at Bitter Grog chapel. Since that first meeting, they now secretly met once a month, preferably when the moon was full. They would gather for all-night meetings that would last till deep into the following day. At such events, they would make plans, pray to their gods, and indulge in their sickening worship of the netherworld.

  Of course, all that was not known to the good people of Dewsbury who in the days immediately following the defeat of the Shadow Walkers quickly picked up their normal pace of life. Actually, most sought to forget the whole ordeal with the Desastrotrax and pushed it as far out of their minds as they could. The idea that some weird chemistry teacher had almost succeeded in manipulating them to great levels of weirdness was humbling to say the least, and as a result the citizens of Dewsbury seemed to be in some sort of conspiracy to sweep the whole affair under the rug. As a result, a new chemistry teacher was quickly installed, although it took several months before the vacancy left by Principal Rigby was filled.

  The fact that several prominent and well-respected citizens had also mysteriously disappeared was a subject to be avoided as well, and although the name of Richard Sternfoot was occasionally mentioned in the pub by the local drunks, talking about him was generally not done.

  Truthfully, nobody really knew what had happened to the man. To Justin and Amy it was very clear what had transpired. The wicked chemistry teacher had shrunk and was blown away by a fierce wind that had come up out of nowhere, but the Dewsburians preferred not to be reminded of the whole ordeal and decided it was better not to be confused by the facts.

  And so the horrors of the Desastrotrax were soon forgotten by most.

  But not by the Shadow Walkers themselves. At their secret meetings in the stable of the ruins of Bitter Grog Chapel, they were plotting and planning for new ways to strike again.

  They had gotten a beating, but were not defeated, and as an unpleasant, contagious growth on the body, that starts out small but slowly increases in strength and power, they too slowly regained their strength.

  And it all came to a boil one day, when the Shadow Walkers once more felt stron
g enough to branch out. The dark spirits that were guiding them were urging them to take action. The time had come.

  Twelve of them had gathered there, that morning. There, in the stable and with the shutters tightly closed, they stood in a circle while holding hands.

  They were a strange bunch. Dressed in long, flowing white gowns with hoods that covered their faces, and only tiny slots for their eyes. They had black belts tied around their waists and their robes were embroidered with weird scarlet symbols, right on their bellies. Impressive they looked, but impressively dark.

  They stood around a massive candle, the size of a regular milk container that the local farmers used to send their milk to the factory in. All of them jabbering strange Latin phrases while raising their hands in some sort of ceremonial worship and swaying back and forth on the cadence of their spiritual proclamations.

  The flame of the giant candle was wildly flickering and dancing in rhythm with the jabbering group. Right before each of the hooded figures, stood an elaborate golden candlestick that was holding a long white unlit candle.

  Then, as on command, all of the participants stopped moving. They kept their hands raised towards the ceiling and no longer spoke their Latin phrases, but grunted like boars in heat.

  One of them, a hefty fellow, broke away from the circle. He too had similar markings on his belly, but his were black and not scarlet red. He was chanting alone in a low voice, “Veni, et dico illis, remittentes minas ab inferis. Corpora possideat.*”

  After the others had repeated the very same words, he walked over to the candles that stood in front of each of the participants, and while still chanting, he lit each candle with a swift move of his hand. While the flickering light of each flame began to cast eerie shadows on the walls, he pushed the button on a battery-operated CD player standing nearby on a wooden table, and instantly raw and loud heavy metal music with raspy guitars and the monotonous beating of drums blared from a loudspeaker box that was attached to a wooden beam on the ceiling.

  More grunting, more screaming, and now with one accord all of them began to dance again, their bodies convulsing in strange and unnatural movements, with an almost unearthly energy. It was as if an outside power streamed in and lifted them up to those strange, dark worlds they claimed to be serving.

  After having whipped themselves into a frenzy of spiritual delight, one by one they began dropping to the floor, at first still convulsing, their mouths flapping open and closed in a bizarre and uncommon fashion, but then at last, they stopped and cradled up to a fetal position. There they lay, motionless, silent, and barely breathing on a faded carpet spread out over the hard packed ground in the old barn.

  After the last of the Shadow Walkers had collapsed to the ground, only the harsh, vibrating guitar solos that were spouting out their hellish sounds were still heard. Finally the CD came to an end as well, and their place of worship was steeped in a gloomy, uncanny silence. The music had served as a vehicle to transport them to the gates of the underworld and they all seemed to have arrived. They were now wandering around in the realms of darkness, meeting with entities that no living being should ever have any dealing with, and, no doubt, they were getting their instructions on how to further the cause of darkness.

  After they had been sprawled out over the dirty floor of the stable for over an hour, one by one they began to move. The ones that had awakened first crawled back up onto their knees, and without saying a word, they obediently waited for the others to wake up out of their trance. At last, the hefty one with the black markings on his robe, sat up too. He peered through the holes in his hood and said in a dark voice, "The master has spoken. He has given us the wisdom we need. We… will need to use the key of Cipher Flux."

  "The key of Cipher Flux?" Enthusiastic screams welled up from their throats and the dark, roguish hellions began to nod their agreement in a jubilant fashion. At last, when the hefty one gave a sign by snapping his fingers, they all raised their right fist into the air, and began to chant in unison, "The key of Cipher Flux. It will bring us the victory."

  The Shadow Walkers had come up with a new plan.

  They would be using the key of Cipher Flux.

  Of course, there was a small problem. The key of Cipher Flux was not yet in their possession. But finding it should not be a problem. After careful consultation with the spirits they knew just the person who could help them find it. If they played their cards well, not only would they get the key of Cipher Flux, but they could take their revenge on their enemies in the process. Three persons in particular needed to pay for the terrible defeat the Shadow Walkers had suffered with the Desastrotrax. Harrison Ames, his nephew Justin, and that bungling girlfriend of his, Amy Stenson… They were like gravel in their mouths. Dark lumps of foulness in their devilish feasts held in honor of their dark Overlord of the Netherworld.

  Excitement rippled through their evil bodies as the hefty one turned the CD back on and once more they yielded to the rasping, metal sounds of the hellish music that washed over them. Even though the sun stood high in the heavens, that day a dark shadow covered the land.

  *Come and speak, masters of the underworld. Take possession of our bodies.

  Chapter One

  Harrison Ames' swivel chair made a loud, creaking sound as the detective leaned back and placed his arms behind his head. He let out a deep sigh as he stared at the empty coffee cup on his desk. Maybe he should have known better than to quit his job at Dewsbury's police force after the terrible events with Sternfoot and the Desastrotrax.

  After Harrison had learned about the defeat of the Shadow Walkers and the glorious march of the rabbits, he no longer wanted to work under Captain Devonshire. Of course the man wasn't to blame, but still… Harrison no longer felt at ease in the musty station and had decided to strike out on his own. Of course, he missed the cheerful smile of secretary Poppy Alberts, but other than that, he was happy to be his own boss for a while.

  He had rented a small office on the second floor of an apartment building on Locust Avenue near the outskirts of Dewsbury, and a metal sign screwed into the wall above the bell, told of his new status:

  Harrison Ames

  Private Detective

  I do it all:

  Investigations, employment screening,

  protective services, security, crisis management,

  lost dogs and more

  But there was no work.

  Nothing.

  Not that there had been more work when he had been employed by Captain Devonshire. But at least he had gotten a monthly paycheck, and that was not a small, unimportant detail, that could be easily glossed over.

  After all, he needed to eat and live.

  Now, Harrison had to take on all kinds of silly, extra jobs to make ends meet, while hoping and waiting for a great criminal breakthrough. He was washing dishes two nights a week at the Golden Lobster, Dewsbury's only three star restaurant, he gave a hand every Saturday morning at Enoch Sutter’s Second Hand Paradise, and he took care of his brother's bookkeeping.

  But it was not satisfying. He was not following his dream, and he had not become a private eye so that he could do all those odd jobs. Maybe it was time to move away from Dewsbury altogether, and set up office in a big town somewhere. Dewsbury was just too sleepy to make a living as a private eye. He had even talked it over with Brother Perpetiël on a rare visit to the monastery of the Guardians of the Sacred Tome. The monk had listened intently, and after Harrison had spouted out all his frustration, the monk had placed his arm on Harrison's shoulder and told him with a gentle smile, "Good things in life come to those who have the patience and courage to wait, Harrison. Just hold on a little longer… And believe it or not, I see a great future for you."

  Whatever.

  That was easy for the monk to say. He lived in a secure monastery with three guaranteed meals each day. That man got to do what he liked doing best, which was praying and meditating while sitting somewhere under the balmy sun of the Westervale Mountains.<
br />
  But then, the next words of the monk had startled him and made him decide to stick it out a little bit longer. The monk narrowed his eyes in such a way that his bushy eyebrows almost completely knit together, and he said, "There's something brewing on the horizon… I can't quite see it, but I have a feeling you are still needed in Dewsbury. I see you serving the King of Heaven in a special capacity?"

  Harrison arched his brows. He didn't like it when people buttered him up with mysterious, spiritual sounding quotes. "I don't know," he said, hoping he wouldn't sound disrespectful, "sometimes I believe in God, but at other times I think He just doesn’t exist.”

  Brother Perpetiël pressed his lips together and tilted his head. "You will know when the time is ripe, Harrison. Just don't give up too soon. I’ll tell you something my mother told me once, when I was young and inexperienced."

  "And what is that?"

  Brother Perpetiël's face took on a serious look as he said, "Don't leave school before the bell rings." He leaned forward and added, "Don't force your way through just because you are impatient. Always look before you leap."

  Whatever.

  But today, Harrison was still washing dishes, still helping out in the Second Hand Paradise, still advising his brother how to keep the IRS from visiting his home, and still advertising his name as a bona fide detective.

  He placed his legs on his desk while sipping another cup of coffee. No matter what the good monk had said, this had to change. He couldn't go on like this.

  The doorbell to his office sounded.

  Loud, rude and demanding.