The flickering light of the gas lamps cast eerie shadows on Tancia, the small village that existed on the northern part of Salintinguchi Island.
It consisted of just over three dozen families, all descended from the original founders of the village. Electricity was hard to come by, not just because of the costs but running lines from the mainland was just too much hassle. So the village ran on gas street lamps and candles, as it has for decades.
That meant at this time of night, the village was usually quiet and dark. But not at this hour. The majority of the village was gathered in the meeting hall, dozens of voices shouting in Italian could be heard echoing through the empty streets.
Inside a girl of around 17 sat, trembling, as adults shouted around her and occasionally pointed towards her chair.
<“She saw it with her own eyes,”>* a middle-age fisherman shouted towards the three older men who were trying to calm everyone down.
<“We don’t know what she saw,”> one of them replied.
<“We would ask the Nicoletti boy, but we can’t find him,”> a man in the back of the room shouted.
<“At least all of him,”> another voice yelled.
With that, a murmur went through the assembled townsfolk. The elders couldn’t get the girl to talk. She was in shock, crying and trembling as she sat on the chair.
Just then, a hoarse, trembling voice came from the corner of the room.
<“You three know exactly what happened.”>
There sat Vincenzo Bertalinni, the oldest man in the village, leaning on his cane and shaking a crooked finger at the three elders.
<“Not possible,”> one quickly spat out. <“It’s been sealed this long, it can’t be what you’re talking about.”>
<“Then you’re as daft as your father,”> Bertalinni quickly retorted. <“It was only a matter of time before it got free. And now it’s going to kill us all.”>
A loud clap of thunder shook the building and the double doors flew open, the wind extinguishing the flame in the hall. A streak of lightning revealed the siloutte of an imposing figure standing in the doorway.
A wet snap echoed the room as several older women hit their knees and began praying loudly in Italian. A pale green glow began to grow in the doorway until it shined brightly over Hellboy’s face, rain drops falling from his filed-down horns.
His heavy footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards as he marched into the room, a broad smile over his face.
“Hi, how ya doin’” he said as he passed the praying women. “Evenin’. Nice to see ya.”
The elders could barely contain their fear, and babbled quietly in their native tongue.
“First things first, you have to knock off that racket,” Hellboy said. “The only Italian I know is Chef Boyardee and a couple Dean Martin songs.”
“Deeeeaaannn Marrrrtiiinnn,” one answered, sounding like a child sounding the name out.
“Yeah, you know,” Hellboy said as he cleared his throat, “when the moon hits your eye likea big pizza pie, that’s a’more.”
The elders didn’t move, just looked quizzcaly at the demon.
“Not doin’ it for you, huh?” Hellboy asked as he turned towards the crowd. “Anyone speak English here. A speako Americano?”
Hellboy scanned the darkened room, until a small, tenative hand raised near the back.
“And we have a winner,” he mumbled, as a young girl stood up and looked at him.
“I do a little,” a deep Italian accent mingling into her English.
“Well, in the immortal words of Rod Roddy, come on down,” Hellboy said as he waved the girl forward. She moved out of the row of benches in the back of the room, shaking the hands of the praying women off of her dress and walked up to Hellboy. “Hi, I’m Hellboy,” he said nonchalantly. “And you are?”
“Filomena.”
“Excellent, mind if I call you Phil?” Hellboy asked. “Good. Phil, let these three know that I am not your enemy.”
The girl spoke quickly in Italian and the men answered. “They say you killed a boy, near the woods,” she replied. “Did you?”
“Do I look like a killer,” Hellboy responded. “Wait, don’t answer that. Tell them I know who killed the boy and his name is Athalon.”
At the mention of the name the men began to chatter in Italian. Bertallini tottered over on his cane and poked Hellboy in the small of the back.
“Take it easy, Gramps,” Hellboy grumbled, pushing the cane aside. “I’m not in the mood.”
The man spoke rapidly in Italian, but Hellboy picked out several mentions of Athalon.
“What’s he saying,” Hellboy whispered into the girl’s ear.
“He says that Athalon can not be killed by conventional means,” Filomena answered. “There is only one substance that can be made that will defeat the monster.”
Hellboy reached into his coat and pulled out the vial of dark liquid. “Way ahead of you, Pops,” Hellboy said, shaking the vial at the man.
The old man smiled a bright smile and winked at Hellboy. He then pointed his cane to the young girl who still sat trembling in the corner.
“Ohhh, I get it,” Hellboy said. “Phil, see if she’ll tell you where she saw it at.”
Filomena moved quickly to the girl’s side and knelt down, putting her hands on her lap. She whispered to the girl for several minutes before finally getting an answer. She ran back to Hellboy’s side and gave him the news. “The monster ate a local boy and ran off to the west,” she blurted out.
Hellboy headed for the door, his gun in hand when he felt Phil tugging on his coat.
“They,” she pointed at the elders, “want to know what they are supposed to do.”
Hellboy stopped and turned to look at the villagers. “Tell them to stay indoors… as long as their houses aren’t made out of straw or sticks,” he laughed as he ran out the doors into the night.
(*Editor’s note: Translated from Italian),.
*
