#7 January 2002

by JM de Joya

You should not be reading this message. I wish you didn't have to. But, sometimes we all have to do things we don't want to. In fact, the stories in this issue were never intended for this series.

In September, JM de Joya informed us that he would be out of commission for a while. Something very serious had occurred, and he had no time for fanfic. In October, I realized that I hadn't heard from him in a while, so I e-mailed him to see how he was doing.

He didn't respond. Instead, I got an e-mail from his brother informing me that JM had died about a week prior.

It was a shock to me, and sometimes I still can't believe that I won't be checking my e-mail and finding a new issue from him. He will be missed. This is his final full issue of Sandman Mystery Theater. Some ideas and unfinished stories he left behind might be used at a later date. But for now, enjoy these two stories, originally planned for a Sandman limited series.

-Chip Caroon

"Such precision," the man before him said. "Same spots, every time... it is the work of an Iron Maiden."

John Zatara sat on the stage, and examined the internal wounds. As Samwell began talking to his deputies, the man placed his hand on the man, and closed his eyes.

In a second, he let go, and turned to the others.

"Thank you, gentlemen, you have been a great help investigating these murders... It's been ruining my stage act for so long, I didn't know what I should do about it, except solve it myself... "

Samwell turned to the stage magician and laughed. "Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about the murders, Zatara. We'll take care of the problem... why don't you go to your room?"

Zatara smiled, and turned to the door. "Yes, I'll do that. It seems I've already gotten all I need here." 

No blood... he thought, as he traced the marked floor. So the victim had been dead for quite some time until they found the body. He turned to the backstage, and entered through the curtains.

"What's this?" he uttered, eyeing the steel sarcophagus on the wall. 

The other side.

"Take, for example, the wounds. They had a brilliant aura. It must be an enchanted Iron Maiden, then." Zatara stood up and set the bust back in his closet. "Thanks, Mortimer, it was nice talking to you, but I have a return engagement to go to... and hopefully some poor fool won't fall prey to that torture box -- after all, it's all because of me."

Zatara grabbed his coat, and placed on his hat. He opened the door, pausing suddenly, as a feeling of dread began to make its way across him. "Maybe I'm too late." 

Wesley grabbed the hand, and shoved the man down to one side. "Oh... Inspector... it's you."

Ian Samwell stared back at the Sandman staring at him from above, and groaned. "You again... geez, when does an enforcer of the law get a break from you?" Wesley helped him up, and he brushed the dust aside. "Huh... ?" Ian stammered, as the light of the steel Iron Maiden flickered in his eyes.

"It's an Iron Maiden, Samwell. An instrument of torture. How could it get here...?"

"Well... there's a magician who's working here now... the name's Zatara."

"Zatara... " Wesley paused, as he pressed his fingers on the metal. "Could he be behind the murders?"

Suddenly, the Iron Maiden began rattling, as if its rage began to build to a crescendo. Wesley pulled Samwell back, as its chest flew open, revealing the spikes hidden within it.

Zzzzzaaaaattttttaaaaaaaaarrraaaa!!!

"That is not good," Zatara said, appearing from the other side of the stage. The possessed Iron Maiden turned to the voice, apparently enraged at facing the magician.

Zzzzzaaaaattttttaaaaaaaaarrraaaa!!!

"What is wrong?" he said, as the Sandman crawled back onto his feet.

Now! Wesley grabbed the Iron Maiden from behind, and it crashed to the cement floor. Suddenly, the torture box flew upright again, and Wesley crashed backwards into a wooden box. What's this? he grabbed the antique doll, examining it.

Zatara came to his side, and held on to the doll. "Actually, I was going for this," he said, as he and Wesley began feeling vibrations of psychic power surging through their bodies. "Yes, this is what she was looking for... "

Zzzzzaaaaattttttaaaaaaaaarrraaaa!!!

At that moment, the Iron Maiden chose to leap at Samwell, spikes open, yet missed as he dodged and crashed into some soft cushions.

"Is this what you want?" Zatara yelled to the Iron Maiden, as it then turned to face him. He lifted the doll, and threw it at the contraption. Suddenly, arms broke through the metal, and caught the doll in mid-air. Wesley saw  a spirit of a little girl holding the doll in her hands, before it disappeared into thin air.

"... What was that?"

Zatara turned to him, as he watched the brilliant dust fall to the earth. "... she died during the colonial period. When I came here five years ago, I made a promise to her." He pressed his hands towards the dust and it disappeared into his hands. "I would find her doll. And I did. However, it took me a long time, and she thought I'd forgotten."

Wesley stared into the air, where the girl disappeared, then turned back to Zatara. "...but she remembered, and grew more and more angry," Wesley deduced, and Zatara smiled.

"Yes, and the killings were the result. I'm sorry."

Finally getting up from the debris, Samwell turned to the men. "Well, how am I supposed to explain this?"

Zatara brought his hand out, and suddenly, a shower of light flickered across the stage. And in an instant, the magician was gone. The Sandman and Samwell were left startled, and alone.

Then, the policeman noticed the note in his hand. He examined the paper, then turned it upside down. And smiled.

.t'nod uoY

"So why would he die of a severe heart attack? The last time we met him, he was in perfect health," Wesley said, as they left the mausoleum and shut the door behind.

"I don't know... It's a mystery," Dian mumbled. "It's quite a shame, though."

They walked towards the limousine, where the figure of a middle-aged woman and her slave were in view. Both of them knew who these other two were: Emilia Hillendale, the widow of Sir Hillendale; and N'uabe, their recently "purchased" African slave. "I see you're taking this well, Emilia," Wesley said, as he opened the door of the car for Dian. "Who inherits the Hillendale fortune now?"

"I-I don't know," Emilia said, stammering. "I promised Albertus that I would donate a large sum to the people who need it most here in Georgia, but much disappeared when he died."

"I see."

Wesley than noticed the straw doll N'uabe was holding, and examined it. The slave hesitated, but in the end lent it to Wes. "Hmm... it looks a lot like Albertus, if you ask me," Wesley whispered to Dian. "With a cute hat even." Suddenly, Wesley's head spun around, visions beginning to pry his mind open.

...something tossed aside ... something shining.

a medallion?... witch doctor, screaming... someone rises.

folded paper... smoke and fire... dark magic... beneath the apple tree.

"My people," N'uabe suddenly said, garnering the investor's attention.

"Don't mind N'uabe, Wesley. She probably misses her savage tribe back home." Wesley returned the doll to N'uabe, who placed it close to her heart. Suddenly, there was a unearthly moan from the mausoleum, and the three (excluding N'uabe) turned their attention to it.

"A-albertus?" Emilia asked, stammering, as the wind died down. Wesley motioned steadily forward, keeping his footing silent. He slowly placed his hand on the handle, where a creaking sound could be heard. Through the small gap in the door, Wesley couldn't believe what he was witnessing. The coffin lid was pushed aside, and the tomb was empty. The body of Albertus Hillendale was leaning on the side, like a rag doll. Wesley gently closed the door, certain that something foul was in their midst. 

Emilia Hillendale had invited the Wesley and Dian for a festival dinner of the slaves, to worship their god. "Honestly," Emilia uttered, stroking her cat. "It is quite sacrilegious to worship any other god than the Lord."

"Everyone's different," Wesley replied, taking a piece of the roasted pork into his mouth. "Long ago, our ancestors worshiped the Morrigan. The Norse worshiped Odin and his Asgard. Japan was in turmoil during its Meiji Era for its Pagan and Buddhist cults."

"Very well, Wesley, if you say so."

The bonfire blazed up into an inferno, as the men and women danced and chanted in their ancient tongue, smoke seeming to shape itself into a face. Dian herself, amused, was clapping to the beat of the drums.

Wesley smiled, while folding an origami piece of a bird. "We all fly different ways, Emilia."

Suddenly, he dropped the piece of folded paper, as the slave men brought in the corpse of one of their own kin, and placed it on the ground. Their elder grasped his medallion, and screamed.

Suddenly, Dian was silent. Emilia was still.

And Wesley. He was watching.

The corpse was beginning to tingle with heat. Another scream from the elder, who placed the medallion on the neck of the dead, brought the man back to life. All the slaves began to rejoice, celebrating their god's return to earth in the form of the recent dead.

"...voodoo," Dian muttered, as the possessed man began to walk towards the three. "I never thought it existed..."

Soon the man was before them, and the elder was showing him to Emilia and Dian. He was naked, Wesley knew, and probably had been stung to death by bees, since their marks were evident all over his body. The dead hand reached out to Dian's face; she didn't move, petrified at the sight alone. She felt its cold hands touching her, trying to bring life to her. Then it backed away, dancing with one of the slave women.

"Dian, are you okay?" Wesley asked, shaking Dian back to reality.

Dian sighed. "H-he was so c-cold," she stammered. "Like he wasn't even alive... "

"They use the memories and emotions of the dead, and manipulate them through a enchanted item that represents the dead," Wesley said. "That's why... wait a minute... "

"What's wrong?" The two ladies turned to him, as he pondered quietly.

"... Dian, the doll we saw awhile ago... looked exactly like... "

"Albertus, of course," Dian exclaimed. "You said so yourself. Why?" 

From afar, he heard the howling and chanting of a voice, a woman's voice. Molding into the shadows abound him, Wesley could see through the tinted glass of his gas mask N'uabe, with the doll and the corpse of Albertus Hillendale. She had a cauldron, which emitted fumes of green smoke. Chanting in her tongue, N'uabe smiled once the doll's body began to stand up straight, moving foot by foot across the field of tombstones. "Woman," the Sandman proclaimed, appearing behind her back. "I am the Lord of Dreams, who has come for justice for the dreams of the dead that you have disturbed"

Startled, she dropped the doll into the cauldron, and called out. But, the Sandman soon realized, it was the other corpses she called. Hands (skeletal or not) began to dig their way from the ground, as the mystery man could hear the moans and creaks of joints long not used. Lunging for N'uabe, the vigilante fell on top of her, spraying the gas gun at her. Slowly, she felt the pull of sleep dragging her down. With no time to spare, Wesley pushed the cauldron aside, and ripped the doll in half before the undead zombies could fully rise from their graves. Their bodies became lifeless and fell to the mud below.

N'uabe recovered quickly, only to find herself tied to a statue of an angel. "Why did you do it, woman?" His voice was quiet, not to disturb and wake the dead once more. "You were looking for the money, why?"

N'uabe turned to him, half-angry and half-sad. "My people," she said again. "My people ... need the money most. Need houses, food... life."

"And your choice of life is to bring back the dead?" Wesley asked, but N'uabe shook her head.

"Way of life... involves understanding... death is not death, death is life waiting breath again."

"Where is Albertus' body?"

N'uabe moved her index finger, pointing towards the shadow at the end of the field. Wesley went over to where were the body of Albertus had been, only to find it dead, right in front of an apple tree. A small bump was there, the Sandman had noticed. Grabbing a shovel, he dug through the night, and found a chest full of documents related to the missing fortune's whereabouts.

Returning, he untied N'uabe and gave the documents to her. "Show this to Lady Hillendale. I will tell her ... I will guide her to those who need the money most," he said, as the sun began to rise. "Go now -- there are bodies to return, and the past to bury."

N'uabe knelt before him and thanked the man, before disappearing the sunlight. The Sandman was relieved, and placed the body of his old friend into his coffin once more. "Sweet dreams, Albertus," he said, mourning.

With one last look, he slammed the coffin lid shut, and locked the door once more.