A Grimoire Dark

by D. S. Quinton

  “Dr. John was a real character in the mid-to-late 1800s, in both the figurative and literal sense. He was a real person. A free black man, originating from a tribe in the Congo. The history of how he settled in the area is a bit muddled, but there are documents of him having ownership over a few businesses, some land, etc.”

  Armand refilled Frank’s brandy and poured Del her first glass. She was eighteen after all, Frank had explained.

  “Figuratively, he was quite the character. He had several wives, several run-ins with the law, and he reportedly was quite proficient in the black side of Voodoo.”

  At this Del made a hhmmpppfff sound with her nose and fidgeted in her chair.

  “Del-bell,” Frank said as he waved her to be quiet.

  “It’s alright, Frank. Not quite the believer I see,” Armand said, nodding at Del.

  “Well, I just—” Del began.

  “No, no, quite alright. I wasn’t a believer in the beginning either.”

  “It’s just that… well, I thought there was a serial killer or something on the loose,” she said. “Some real explanation for what’s happening. I didn’t think you were associating this with Voodoo, Frank.”

  Armand interrupted Frank’s defense. “Miss Del, I’m not asking to embarrass you, but what do you know of the Voodoo religion?”

  Del shuffled in her chair again. “Religion? Well… I know this city runs on the mythos of Voodoo because the tourists eat it up.” Frank whistled and nodded again at the word choice. “But besides Voodoo dolls, love potions and… zombies, not much! And what’s religion really got to do with it anyway?”

  Armand’s bushy face smiled. “Fair assessment of the commercial aspects,” he said. “But religion just may have everything to do with it.”

  He waved his hand at the giant bookcases behind him.

  “I’m an academic, you see. A professor in a previous life. And formerly quite the skeptic,” he said pointedly at Del. “But all that changed one day when I could not explain what I had seen with my own eyes, so I went searching. First it was one book, then it was two. After a while,” he waved at his surroundings again, “I was toting boxes as dear Frank would say. Boxes upon boxes of writings and manuscripts. Anything I could get my hands on to explain the phenomenon.” He gazed out the window and watched the rain drizzle down the pane. “My financial state was such that it allowed me to indulge my curiosity to quite an unhealthy and obscene degree.” He touched the books on the shelves lovingly. “And I’m afraid I must say that I have become quite obsessed with this field of study, and have collected quite a large volume of research on the topic.”

  “What did you see?” Del asked.

  Ignoring the question, he paused to refill his own glass, savoring the tension in the room.

  “Forgive me for delaying so, but I am quite enjoying the company. Rarely do I get visitors that… indulge me,” he said with a tip of his glass. “Mais je digresse. Dr. John, as he was known by the locals, aka Jean Montanee, was a real person who practiced the real religion of Voodoo his whole life, as far as we can tell. His exploits were legendary and built him quite the following of believers. He used his considerable influence to his benefit whenever possible.”

  “Sounds like a snake-oil salesman to me,” Del said.

  “Yes, one could say on the surface that several of his dealings were quite suspect, but when you dig below the… mythos,” he said, smiling at Del, “there are also credible sources to corroborate some very incredible claims.”

  “But what does this have to do with the dead bodies?” Del asked impatiently.

  Armand nodded politely, happy that Del had arrived at the point he needed her to be.

  “The Voodoo religion is not unlike that of Christianity,” Armand said, “although it was born from the strife of several enslaved nations, not the strife of the Roman or Spanish Inquisitions.

  “The views on life, death, the soul, basically the same. Loas, the same as spirits, are present. In fact,” he said, leaning on the table to gaze at them both, “the two religions actually share saints! Did you realize that?”

  Del wrinkled her forehead in disbelief.

  “St. Peter of all things!” Armand said.

  “St. Peter?”

  “Yes! Fascinating, don’t you think?” Armand said as he randomly organized loose manuscript pages. “Of course, the entities originally had different names, but the purpose of the higher Loas, aka Saints, were to perform similar functions, such as ‘Keeper of the gate to the spirit world’, etc.”

  At this, a thought shimmered in the far reaches of Armand’s mind. It was the shadow of a thought he felt desperate to capture.

  “…and who’s to say if that is true or not?” Del said, snapping Armand’s attention back to the conversation. Her face challenging the credibility of his last statement.

  The thought was lost.

  “I’m sorry, where was I?” Armand said. “But of course, religion. As I was saying, with any religion, where there’s light, there is also dark. And as we know, there are very dark things to consider in the Voodoo religion, perhaps just as dark as in Christianity.”

  Incredulous, Del said, “Just as dark? OK, maybe I can see your point that Voodoo is more than just superstitious mumbo-jumbo, but to say that it’s just as dark as Christianity, how can you make that statement knowing that Voodoo is known for zombies and Voodoo dolls?”

  Armand admired Del quietly for a moment and saw that Frank was watching intently.

  Finally, he said, “My dear Del, I stated that Voodoo is perhaps just as dark. How odd is it that one group is ridiculed for believing in zombies and Voodoo dolls, when another group is revered for their ritualistic eating of flesh and drinking of blood?”

  Del shuffled in her chair. “OK, I get that the idea of communion is cannibalistic but—”

  “Not to mention,” Armand interrupted, “the revered groups belief in demons… possessions… and exorcisms.”

  For this, Del had no answer.

  Frank let Del off the hook by clearing his throat and asking, “But what of Dr. John?”

  Taking the hint, Armand said, “Of course, of course! How I have rambled! Anyway, the exploits of Dr. John paint him as an opportunist when it came to selling love potions and the like, but remember, he was from West Africa and grew up through a slave trade that mixed tribes from Africa with those of Haitians as they returned home. These tribes had deep beliefs in spiritualism built upon thousands of years of practicing natural healing and medicine. In fact, the earliest known surgeries, sometime around 3000 B.C. I believe, were attributed to the African tribes in Egypt—”

  “The Egyptians?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Well-established trade routes throughout Western Africa, all the way over to Cairo, made the transference of knowledge fairly easy. The African tribes were performing brain surgeries long before the Europeans.”

  Armand paused to repack his pipe and let the significance settle over Del. Frank brushed cigar ashes from his stomach after helping himself to a bit more brandy.

  Armand continued. “So, we now have a mix of people from a continent twice the size of the U.S., that have thousands of more years of innate knowledge, and we call their religion mumbo-jumbo.” He shook his head in disgust with his hands in the air.

  Del nodded with understanding, but Armand saw the questions still hanging on her lips.

  “But what of the dead bodies and Dr. John?” he prompted as Del nodded. “The darker reports of his… experiments, suggest that he studied, to somewhat of a successful end, the practice of necromancy and—”

  “What?” Del jumped. “The raising of the dead?”

  “Yes, my dear, but not only the raising of the dead, which is actually the spirit, but the binding of the spirit to a corpse. For reanimation, you see. Only… he reportedly didn’t always use… human corpses. Quite often to monstrous effect.”

  A bellowing gust of wind shook the large house at that moment, causing all three to jump
and fall quiet.

  After several seconds of listening to the straining windowpanes, Armand continued. “There are accounts of his ability to summon a spirit, and in some cases, bind it to an object. Sometimes the object was as simple as a crudely made doll,” a dread understanding washed across Del’s face, “and sometimes it was a corpse. However, on occasion—”

  “There’s more?” Del asked.

  “On occasion, the spirit was bound to a monstrosity.”

  Del looked at Frank for a hint that this was an elaborate spook story, but saw only grim agreement.

  “What do you mean, ‘monstrosity’?” she asked cautiously.

  Armand considered his words carefully. “Imagine a spirit being pulled from its shadowy depths—its everlasting sleep—and awakening into an inanimate object such as a Voodoo doll. The spirit is aware it is on the other side again, but it’s unfamiliar with its own form; not able to move; simply… stuck for eternity. Quite horrifying when you think about it. But now imagine the spirit is bound to a corpse, one that was formerly animate.”

  Armand’s voice lowered as he imagined the horror. “The spirit recognizes the body shape, and in rare occasions can somehow re-animate the limbs, perhaps move what is left of the mouth or the eyes. But then… there are those that are bound to the most horrific fate. Bound not to a human corpse, but to that of an animal. An unholy union. Those, my dear, are the monstrosities; a human spirit bound to an animal’s body; mad beyond comprehension; driven by animalistic need; tortured by the fleeting dream of one’s former self. There are very few reports of these types of bindings, but those I have found coincide with reports of similarly mutilated bodies, and always with the brains eaten out.

  “So you see, this is why the dead bodies, and particularly the teeth marks and transformed tracks reminded me of the strange story of Dr. John. I believe Frank may be looking for a monstrosity.”

  Chapter 26

  A Monstrosity

  Yes! Fearful monstrosity!

  * * *

  Oh, the horror of the thing! Cursed, cursed souls, you unerstan’… twisted and cursed, beyond imagination… yeah… beyond imagination.

  * * *

  I prayed these images would be burned from my mind, but they haunt me like a hellish specter.

  * * *

  I remember now! Oh! The horror I recall! And the poor wretched Toth. They speak of abominations as if they understood!

  * * *

  But what of the others? Alas, tell me the others have not been cast down this deep! How will they ever be found? How will they—

  * * *

  Wait.

  * * *

  Yes, of course, let’s see… the others, the others… the story… the cemetery, no not the cemetery, …the vault, Eddie?

  * * *

  Yes of course! The book!

  * * *

  The wind will carry the words.

  Chapter 27

  The wind leaned into the house, creaking the timbers down to the foundation. Frank cocked his head and listened to the house complain. Above them, several branches were somehow blown onto the roof and fell against the domed skylight, causing stickly finger-shadows to crawl down the interior curved walls.

  Del thought she heard a voice on the wind, but said nothing.

  Armand returned from the kitchen with a large tray of meats, cheeses and two bottles of wine. They were too far into their conversation to stop now, he had stated. Besides, he was in need of an excuse to open a good bottle.

  After grazing over the first course—that was well explained by Armand, who also seemed to be an amateur sommelier—Del wandered behind the large worktable where Armand had given his lecture earlier that afternoon. She ran her fingers lightly over the books, wondering at the mysterious knowledge that must be hidden within the old leather hides. Armand watched her quietly as he and Frank lit another round of pipe and cigar.

  “Do you have a favorite?” Del asked, suddenly turning away from the giant shelves.

  Armand puffed and considered. “They’re all unique in their own way. Some very old, some very strange. I’m fascinated with them all really, but—” he walked around on her side of the table, “this one,” he carefully pulled a raggedy looking book from the very center, “fascinates me the most,” and carefully laid it on the table.

  “Sweet Mary and Joseph,” Frank whispered.

  “What’s that, mon ami—?” Armand started, but stopped dead as he looked at Frank’s face. “What is it?”

  “Where’d you get dat book?” Frank said, standing up slowly.

  A strange look crossed Armand’s face. “This is a grimoire I acquired from a bookseller late last year. Why?”

  “What’d you say?” Del asked. “A grim…”

  “Grim-WAH. It’s a book of ma—” Armand stopped, watching Frank raise his hand.

  “It’s a book of magic,” Frank said as he held out the package wrapped in newspaper that he had held all night.

  “A book of ma—?”

  “Yes, Del,” Armand interrupted quietly. “A book of magic. Sometimes spells, sometimes stories, but... What do you have there, Frank?”

  Frank walked slowly to the table, set the package down, and poured himself some more wine.

  Armand took the package and laid it next to his own book. He slowly removed the paper and marveled at what lay before him.

  “Frank…” he whispered.

  “What? What is it?” Del asked.

  “Frank, where did you get this?” Armand was looking at an eerily similar copy of the book he had just pulled off his shelf.

  “From da house of a missin’ person. She lives down Jean Lafitte area. Near da first missin’ head.”

  Armand slowly opened both books and took a sharp intake of breath. He looked at the books from the bottom and could clearly see they had both been pasted together from sections of different books. They both had false covers on them.

  Armand quickly flipped the pages simultaneously, letting his finger scan the pages for similarities.

  “Oh, Frank. What have you found?” Armand said.

  “You tell me. What’d I find?”

  Armand continued scanning pages, but then quickly flipped his book open to a marked passage.

  “Oh, hell,” Frank muttered without even reading the words.

  Armand looked at him for a brief second, then flipped the pages of Frank’s book to nearly the same spot. He dropped his arms to his sides and stared in disbelief.

  Del watched both men carefully consider the books in front of them.

  “OK, guys, what’s the—”

  “A grimoire is a book of spells and incantations,” Armand said. “Many people kept books such as these, but some grimoires are believed to actually hold magical abilities themselves. Infused somehow with old magical properties.

  “I stated that this was my favorite book because it has a passage in it that appears to be part of an incantation. It was unclear to me if any other verses actually existed, until now.”

  His hands found the page in Frank’s book, then found the passage that started with:

  * * *

  Verset I

  Hellish spirit hear me clearly, grant you now full use or nearly,

  * * *

  “It’s true…” Armand said quietly. “I can’t believe it, but it’s right here in front of me.”

  “What’s true?” Del asked. “And why is there the same writing in both books? Are they copies?”

  Frank came around the table so he could read the passage from Armand’s book straight on. At first, he thought it had the same passage; it was clearly the same shaky script that had been translated from a very old language. But upon closer inspection, he saw that the words were different.

  “No, my dear Del, they’re not copies,” Armand said. “Although they were certainly written by the same hand. It appears that our mystery author, after achieving a painstaking translation, found it necessary to separate these two passages and preserve the
m in different copies of the same book.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Del asked.

  Frank said, “Dis is dangerous writin’ right here.”

  “Perhaps,” Armand said. “But who’s to say? You can see in the earlier pages of both books, they appear to be a collection of minor spells, and in some cases, a simple list of herbal healings.” Armand turned to a page of Frank’s book. “Recipes to cure a colicky baby; wart removal; ah, here’s a love potion.” Flipping further. “Interesting. Something about our own Jean Montanee: …a free Negro of the blackest color… country marks. Interesting.”

  He flipped a few more pages.

  “But most of this appears to be very White.”

  Del looked at him with questions.

  “White, mild, innocent magic intended to help or heal. With the exception of course of your hellish verse,” Armand said. “My book, on the other hand, is a bit stranger.” He flipped to an early page. “Incantation for the Red Raven. Who ever heard of such a thing? A red raven?

  “The Bone Gourd Ceremony. The Bluebird Hex. Here’s one: Scourge of the Death Rock, how fascinating! And strangest of all, a reference to The Unbinding Spell—whatever that may be—on a later page, which appears to have been torn out of the book. Most frustrating.”