In a photographic darkroom, old optical enlargers, porcelain trays, timers, and stills were hanging out to dry. A slightly obese, nearsighted man in his seventies, George Matlin, was doing an interview on a very touchy government secret.

"Is he real?" George asked his interviewer. "Oh yeah - Absolutely." Many years ago George was a combat photographer; CPL. GEORGE MATLIN. "I haven't talked about it for years,

you know?" he said before looking at the camera, a box of old negatives in his lap. "Everyone called me crazy..." he smiled before pawing through the box. "But I have the negative." Someone turned on the darkroom's red safety light for an eerie, dramatic effect.

"Get ready, 3-2-1... Roll tape." The technician said.

"It all started back in ´44. I was a Corps photographer aboard an allied submarine, off the coast of Scotland. Classified mission. I was 21... We had an English civilian and a woman on board. Not much older than me but already advisors to President Roosevelt. "Paranormal" advisors, I kid you not –" The man said to his interview as he remembered.

I sat with my friend in a small room trying to be comfortable. My friend was an incongruously proper young Englishman "reading" an ancient set of Tarot cards while I sat across from him, watching him.

"Her name was Rose and his name was Trevor. Profesor Trevor –"

"- Broom! You two topside, now." Whitman called out to us. Trevor was a gaunt, olive-skinned man in his late twenties and I appeared to be in my early to mid-twenties, my dark hair pulled up in a bun and my light blue eyes watching my friend. In Trever's hands was a tarot deck he'd been reading for a while. He turned the cards face up one by one.

THE FOOL

THE MOON

"The sooner we're done, the better." Whitman said. Trever grabbed his word-down wooden box full of book and amulets. It had a leather strap that allowed him to carry it much like a carpenter's tool box.

"This is an important mission, Sgt. Whitman. I hope you realize that." Trever told him.

"Oh - you don't wanna know what I think. Topside, now." He ordered.

"Sgt. Whitman, if you don't want us to know what you think then think quietly." Rose told him. He gave her a look and moved away from them. Trever held his cards in his hand before looking down at them nervously. He tensely turned the last card and looked to his oldest friend.

THE DEVIL

We gave each other a small look before continuing on our way.

OCTOBER 9, 1944, SCOTLAND.

It was raining like hell now. Soldiers moved through a short tunnel carved into the mountain. Once on the other side of the tunnel Whitman signaled his men to spread out before coming alongside Trever and Rose.

"Sgt. Whitman! Sgt. Whitman! May we have a word?" Trever asked him.

"What is it?" Whitman asked him impatiently.

"In private, if you don't mind..." he asked him once more. We all went to a small remains of a small chapel where Trever produced a small box full of rosaries. "Your men - They'll need these –" Whitman scowled and huffed at him.

"You are two Catholics?" he asked us.

"I'm not." I answered.

"Amongst other things, yes – but that's hardly the point." Trever told him as he locked and loaded an automatic.

"Here. You'll need one of these." He said handing it to Trever.

"I abhor violence." Trever told him and I took the gun.

"It's a good thing you have me then." I told him and he just gave me a look.

"Sergeant Whitman, I hope you don't think me mad –" Trever told him.

"Three days too late for that one, "professor."" Whitman told him as he moved away from us. Trever just looked up to the wooden Christ before walking away. I looked up at him and noticed it had no eyes before I walked away to join the men. In a ditch, the young photographer hauled his tripod and gear with him as he joined the troops on the move. Trever and I followed behind before catching up with Whitman.

"You're wasting our time: There's nothing on this island but sheep and rocks." Whitman told us.

"Ruins. Not rocks. The remains of Trondham Abbey."

"You should have seen it before it became ruins." I told them and Whitman gave me a look before Trever continued what he had been saying.

"Built on an intersection of Ley Lines, the boundaries between our world and the other –" Trever tried telling him.

"What a load of crap. Hell, a week ago I hadn't even heard the word parabnormal –" Whitman told us.

"That because parabnormal isn't a word." I told him.

""Paranormal"" Trever corrected him before the man moved on. "But - you read the transmission."

"Half transmission. Nonsense – German ghost stories!" Whitman told us.

"I have seen ghosts, Whitman." Trever told him.

"Oh, I'll bet you have." Whitman said.

"He has and trust me, the stories are wrong." I said as we reached a slope. We peaked over to see lights ahead of us.

"Sweet Jesus." The photographer said. Completely drenched, we all looked down upon an impressive Romanesque ruin. Under worklights, dozens of Nazi soldiers swarmed among thick stone walls and archways.

"They must be here for the sheep." Trever told Whitman make me smirk at the man. We watched as German soldiers swiftly assembled a large steel machine. All the work was being monitored by a spindly Nazi in black leather, his face covered by an odd gas mask.

"The freak in the gas mask –" Whitman started saying when Trever spoke up.

"Karl Ruprecht Kroenen, one of the Reich's top Scientists. Head of the Thule Occult Society." Trever lowered the binoculars and passed them to Whitman. "If he's here, this is worse than we

thought."

"Air and sea backup. What's closest?" Whitman asked into his radio.

"Londonderry, sir. Forty minutes away." The radio man told him.

"We don't have forty minutes." Trever told Whitman as we watched Kroenen throw a switch on a machine and we watched dozens of gears responded. Steam pistons thrust copper rails upright, lifting two mighty metal rings, not unlike a gyroscope. I watched as the lights flooded an ancient sacristy lined with eroded stone saints. I saw a tall, gaunt man standing naked arms fully extended to a severe, ageless Aryan beauty who reverentially draped an embroidered robe over his bony shoulders. I watched as he handed her a small leather-bound book.

"Grigory Rasputin is here." I told them.

"How can you see that without binoculars?" Whitman asked me. I turned and looked at him, causing to stare at me in shock. My eyes had changed to their natural color. The iris was gold around the pupil before going red.

"I have my ways." I said before turning back to Rasputin and the woman. I watched as he dipped his fingers into a wooden bowl, and then wipe her tears away leaving behind a crimson smear. I watched as another German soldier wearing dark scarlet glasses and leather gloves walked up to them. "Rasputin just performed a ritual."

"Can you tell what it was?" Trever asked me.

"Not without hearing what they're saying." I told him. Rasputin walked toward the machine, its colossal steel and copper clockwork gleamed in the floodlights. The new man walked alongside Rasputin and the woman who held an umbrella to shield Rasputin from the pouring rain. I watched Kroenen open a polished oak box, but couldn't see what was inside. Rasputin extended his hand and Kroenen fit a massive gold and copper mecha-glove before attaching it to cables and hoses. "Forty minutes is definitely too long. We need to move now!" I told them. The Americans fanned out around them unseen by the German's. Whitman, Trever and I moved from our position and dove into a ditch barely in time to avoid a German foot patrol. I watched as GI's took up positions below a machine gun nest. I watched as Rasputin walked to the top of the altar, cables tailing behind him.

"Tonight, We will open a portal and awaken the OGDRU JAHAD: The seven Gods of chaos." We heard Rasputin say. "Our enemies will be destroyed. In an instant, all impurity in this world will be razed and from the ashes a new eden will arise." He looked down at the machine. "Ragnarok, Anung Ia Anung." He whispered. He flexed his fingers and in response the two metal rings swung around the machine's central axis. Steam escaped from the ducts and pipes as an invisible blast of energy forced the falling rain to swerve momentariy away from Rasputin's body. The woman signaled two Nazi scientists standing at a control panel.

"More Power! Don't let the level drop!" she called to him. One of them inserted a 20 inch solid gold cylinder into the machine. Suddenly a blade of light opened in the air and burning symbols slashed the air like living serpents of fire.

"What the hell was that?" I watched and saw on the edges of the cosmic slit with color to see an alien galaxy sparkling on the other side. Suddenly, a work light tore loose and flew into it. We watched as Rasputin's body rose in the air and veins swelled in his neck, his face distorted by ecstasy and pain. Suddenly we heard a photo being taken and Whitman pulled the photographer down and pulled out a large bayonet blade.

"Listen to me, you moron: you do that again, I'll carve you a new –" Whitman started asking.

"Listen to me! The portal is open! We have to stop them!" Trever told him. Whitman took out a grenade and threw it towards the Nazi's. We all ducked before the explosion and a few seconds after the squad of Allies and I stormed into the area. A hail of bullets cut down dozens of Nazis. We overrun the machine gun nest as grenades exploded around us. TCHKKK! I turned in time to see Kroenen extended two gleaming blades from twin steel bands on his wrists and took on an entire group of soldiers, mowing through them with swords spinning like deadly rotors. I saw Trever pull a pin out of a grenade and threw it at the generator I was close to.

"Move!" I shouted at the Americans, pushing a few out of the way of the explosion before getting out of the way myself. We all found cover just as it exploded behind us. In front of me was a stone wall that Kroenen slammed into before two long pieces of shrapnel pinned him like an insect.

"Grigory!" I turned in time to see Rasputin's face distorted, pulled like ectoplasmic taffy. He body was contorting and breaking in multiple places as the cosmic portal suddenly imploded. Nothing was left in the area but a few burnt rails and the metal glove, empty and smoking. I got out from behind my cover to see the woman gone. I sighed and turned to the stone wall to see Kroenen gone, nothing except the two bloody rails embedded into the wall where he had been pinned. I fought my way to Trever as he was being helped up by the photographer.

"It's almost over!" the man said happily.

"No. It's not." Trever said before picking up a sample of white, viscous goo from one of the outer rings of the smoking machine as Whitman approached us. "Cordon off the area. Something came through."

"From where?!" Whitman asked us. Trever glanced" Whitman asked us. Trever glanced at a 13th century Fresco depicting heaven and hell.

"Where do you think?" I asked him and he looked at the Fresco slightly scared. Still raining, the soldiers spread out using flashlight to scour through the rubble. Every one of them had a rosary hanging from their bayonets. The photographer, Whitman, Trever, and I moved into the inside of the chapel where I bandaged Trever's bleeding leg as the other two roamed over the debris.

"Do you believe in hell?" the photographer asked us.

"There is a place - a dark place where evil slumbers and awaits to return. From there it infects our dreams. Our thoughts. Grigory gave us a glance tonight –" Trever told him.

"Grigory - That's Russian, right?" the photographer asked and Trever nodded. "Thought they were on our side..."

"Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin –" I said.

"C'mon - Rasputin?" he asked me.

"Spiritual advisor to the Romanovs. In 1916, at a dinner in his honor, he was poisoned, shot, stabbed, clubbed, drowned and castrated."

"That makes him more than a hundred –" the photographer said in surprise.

"That's young." I told him before a rustling sound reached our ears. The photographer readied his handgun as Trever scanned the walls with his flashlight. We saw something move accompanied by a loud scrape. The photographer cocked his pistol and nervously approached a crumbling statue. Something screeched and a red creature jumped into the air which instinctively he shot at it. We watched as the red creature leapt from arch to arch, followed by a trail of bullet hits as Whitman and the other soldiers joined us.

"What the hell was that? An ape?" he asked us.

"No. It was red. Bright red." Trever told him.

"What are you two talking about?" Whitman asked him.

"A red ape." The photographer told him.

"It's-not-an-ape –" Trever told him again. We heard the labored breathing of a living creature.

"It's got a big stone - in its hand –" the photographer said.

"I think that is its hand." Trever told them.

"It is." I said staring at the creature who was hissing at us as it cowered between a gargoyle and a stone saint. Whitman pointed his gun at the scarlet shape above us and I quickly slapped it out of his hand.

"Wait –" Trever said as another soldier prepared to fire. I turned back to the creature as it observed us with bright, golden eyes veined with streaks of burnt sienna. Trever slowly fished a Baby Ruth candy bar from his pocket and peeled back the wrapper before slowly waving the candy. The red things shrank back from him as I moved closer to him. Trever bit into the candy and chewed noisily smacking his lips to draw the creature to him. He offered the candy again and this time a small face, not very different from the stone demons around it causing me to smile.

"It's a child." I said as the creature extended its right arm. The arm was solid stone with tiny runes engraved around the thick, cylindrical wrist. Four articulated stone fingers wiggled at us, reaching for the chocolate.

"Jesus! would'ya look at the size of that whammer!" a young soldier said. Trever moved closer to him, drawing the child towards him. I handed Trever a blanket as the chile climbed into Trever's blanketed arms. Trever and I covered it with a blanket. Its stubby fingers snatched the candy from Trever making me laugh.

"It's a boy. Just a baby boy." Trever told them. The soldiers clustered around us, curious to see the child in Trever's arm. The photographer moved us all where he wanted to as he prepared his camera and directed us into a group shot. Trever and I stood on both sides of the child smiling like proud new parents at him. I took him from Trever and held him in my arms with a loving smile on my face as he took the picture.

"Best photo of my career and no one has ever seen it. They keep saying he's not real, but I want to set the record straight before I go." George told the interviewer before he finally pulled out an old 8x10 from a battered portfolio and smiled at it, full of memories. "Here. The real picture, not the retouched one in LIFE magazine." He said handing over the old group photo. "This is him. The very same night we found him. The night Broom and Rose gave him that name. Can I say it on TV? He called him –"

"HELLBOY." Trever said and I smiled in agreement. Inside the blanket, Hellboy blinked his bright golden eyes and chewed the candy he'd taken from Trever, his devilish red tail twitching happily.

"It's perfect."