"Them": Preface, Proluge, and First Chapter

Preface: This is a story based upon the album "Them," by King Diamond. All events and characters are directly from him. My purpose for writing this is to simply flesh out the macabre and horrifying story which he created on that album. Whether or not you actually read the entire story, you must take at least one listen to the album before you die.

So, as I mentioned before, this is simply just a fleshing out of King Diamond's excellent musical masterpiece, "Them." So please don't sue me, as I am only 17, have little money, no lawyers, and you are the King. ^_^

Prologue

October 15, 1970

The house on the hill stood eeriely quiet. Not a single sound echoed within the forest surrounding it. The moon hung heavy upon the night, casting it's etheral glow upon the hill.
Twilight held constant here. Unbroken by animals, crickets, or even the sound of a car down the highway, for the house was miles from any main road. The night hung still, as if it were a Van Gogh portrait.
Except on this night, it was a fatal portrait.

The old man was hiding in the cellar. He could not understand or comprehend what was transpiring in his home.
What is happening?!?!?! his mind kept asking. However, an answer would not come.
Just an hour ago, he had awoke from a restless sleep, sweating pouring from his brow. His heart beating a steady bass beat against his chest. Just a nightmare...he thought. He reached over to his left, where his wife would surely lay. Feeling her warmth, her person, her solidity, would surely help to his ease his mind.
However, his arm craddled nothing.
"Abigail?" he called out in the darkness. Uneasily, he got out bed, his gray hair slicked to his forehead from persperation.
"Abigail? Where are you dear?" he asked again, looking around their bedroom.
Moonlight shone in from the window of their home, illuminating the room slightly. He was able to make out the time on the wind-up clock on their night stand. 1:38, the hands of the clock read.
Abigail hadn't a habit of sleepwalking, nor had she ever disappeared for no apparent reason. Of course thoughts of affairs and disloyalty had crossed Johnathan's mind, but at their age? Surely not. Besides, none of the typical signs associated with infidelity had shown within her. No renewed vitality, no constant mention of another man, no decrease in their love lives.
Why isn't she responding to my calls? Johnathan thought. Slowly, he opened the door and walked down the hall, groping for a light. He turned to his left, and saw a small light, illuminating from a door at the end of the hallway. It lead up into the attic, and what the light was doing on up there, he did not know.
Quietly, he walked towards the door, wondering what Abigail was doing upstairs. He was about to call her name again, when he heard something.
Talk. Laughter. Only it wasn't from a television set, or even his Abigail.
Many voices. Demonic voices.
Johnathan had no way of knowing this. He could not piece together a simple explanation for what he was hearing. He approached the door, looking through the keyhole. His breath caught in his throat at what he saw.
His Abigail, his dear, sweet Abigial...the woman he had loved since they met on July 7, 1900...the woman he had proposed to in front of their friends and family on their 2 year anniversary...the woman he had shared a bed with for almost 50 years and had a beautiful daughter with...not in a tryst with some stranger...much worse.
It appeared to be no one, however, tea cups did not float in mid-air! Nor did they drain themselves of their contents, or issue ghastly voices from within their recesses!
He watched them, for what seemed like forever. In the 45 minutes that he spied on his wife and whatever she was sitting with, he heard much unholy talk. Talk of their house, which they seemed to call Amon. For what reason they did this, it was unknown to him...he knew in his heart, however, that it was nothing that was associated with the Catholic faith of which he was born and raised into.
His wife, sitting in her rocking chair, laughing madly as she poured herself another bloody cup of tea. However, suddenly the voices and laughter stopped. Then, the keyhole went black.
"HE'S SEEN AMON!!! YOU MUST GET RID OF HIM!!!"
The door swung open. His Abigail stood before him, the large axe he had used to split firewood just this morning in her hands. "ABIGAIL, NO!!!!" Johnathan cried as she brought the axe down. Rolling backwards, he avoided falling to it's blade by mere inches.
Her eyes...what happened to her eyes?!?! he thought as he looked at her again. She stared at him with a gaze so blank...so expressionless...so black...
Panic stricken, Johnathan ran from the hall to the stairs. He looked back before reaching them, trying to see if Abigail was following him. Nearly impossible to tell with the lack of light.
The temperature of the room seemed to drop, as a cold force blew by him. Johnathan fell down the stairs, head over heels, just as his yet unborn granddaughter would some 17 years would.
Pain exploded throughout his body, his legs seemingly useless and buzzing with pain. However, he was still alive. A true miracle that he did not break his neck. On both hands and knees, he crawled to the cellar, still unsure of where Abigail was...still trying to comprehend what was happening.

It had been 15 minutes since Johnathan was attacked. Trying not to make any noise, he listened for sounds as he hid in his cellar. His legs were still pain riddled, and he could hardly walk. How he was still alive, was a mystery to him.
Unbeknownst to him, he would live for very little longer.
The cellar door swung upon, and his Abigail lumbered down the stairs. He was hiding behind the furnance, praying that she would not find him. The coldness from the stairs had, however.
Johnathan was enveloped within the freezing power, unable to move. He heard their voices, the voices of Amon, calling to his wife. "BY THE FURNANCE!!! END HIM!!!"
Johnathan's last sight on earth was of his wife, looking as if she had had a complete mental breakdown, advancing towards him with his axe. His last sight on earth, of the woman he had loved since the day they met, on July 7, 1900...bringing the axe down into his neck.
As Johnathan's now decapitated head rolled away from his body, which he could still see crumpling down in death, he caught a last glimpse of his wife. His wife, basking in his blood...filling her teapot with it. Dr. Landau and the police would not be able to believe what they would see the next day as morning broke.
Abigail...Johnathan thought, as he finally died.

The twilight remained unbroken...

Out From The Asylum

Look...the old bitch is back...
Yes...finally we will have some company again...the attic room has been locked up for far too long...just like the old bitch herself...
She's on time...though why that silly wheelchair?
Oh, she is pretending as always...
But she does make a good cup of tea...

"Oh my god, she's here! Missy, listen to what Mother says! Now you be good to Grandma; and remember, she's been away on a long vacation. That goes for you too King. And stop playing that thing! Would you answer the door?"
King Diamond went to the door. His Grandmother, whom he had never met in his 15 years of life, had finally returned to the home that his mother had inherited when their Grandfather died. Brushing aside his long brown hair, he got up from the grand piano in the parlor.
And you couldn't get the door for the old fucking bat? he thought venomously of his mother. His mother had tendency to order him around, no matter how trivial the task was. That would change however, in another year or two, when he could finally move out of this place. Their big house, in the middle of nowhere in Maine...how he hated the solitude and quiet. Nobody was around to hang out with, he was homeschooled...his life was very secluded. He had no friends to speak of, except for his little sister, Missy.
Missy had come running down the stairs, ribbons flowing from her long, blond hair. dressed up in her best dress, anxious to meet her Grandmother.
As King walked towards the door, he replayed what his mom had told him a few days ago. A Mr. Landau had called their house, apparently a friend of Grandmother. He had told his mother (according to her) that his Grandmother Abigail would be coming home from vacation. This seemed like bullshit of the highest caliber to King. Who the fuck goes on vacation for 15 years? he wondered, but he was not all that curious. He didn't care much about these matters.
As he reached for the door, he had what he would later think of as a premonition. Icy waves had rippled through his body, and he had what he couldn't seem to call a flashback or a phantasm.
An axe...a headless body...blood...in his cellar...and voices...
As he tried to shake the images from his mind, King could have sworn he heard voices...where from, he did not know. The sounded neither above nor below him. What they were saying was almost inaudible, but he he could make out, "...she's back...old bitch...cup of tea..."
Then, as quickly as they came, the voices disappeared. However, the feeling of dread and melancoholy did not disapate as quickly for King.
Something bad is going to happen, King thought, as he twisted the door knob, and awaited the sight of his Grandmother.