A Grimoire Dark

by D. S. Quinton

  He shivered against the cold night and wondered if he would ever get back home. He wished he could stay with Del, and didn’t understand why she had gone away. Somehow her time was up at the orphanage. He was sad when he’d heard that, and hoped his time was never up.

  His heavy eyelids drooped as he started to doze. He’d had scary dreams ever since leaving the orphanage, and didn’t want to dream anymore, so he tried his best to stay awake. The more he sang, the longer he could stay awake, he thought.

  Quietly, a heavy mist began to swirl about him. He watched the clouds twist and morph as if a micro-storm was forming just beyond him. The longer he watched, the more the clouds looked like familiar things. He first saw the orphanage, and was very excited that he was almost home, but then remembered that he was lost, so he thought it must be someone playing a trick on him. He then saw several shadows move away from the orphanage and float down dark streets. They went the same direction for a while, then disappeared. He saw several faces start to form in the dark clouds and huddled closer to the cold wall. He remembered Del’s warning about strangers, and took that to heart. He remembered the game that he and Del would play by trying to see shapes in the clouds, but there were no elephants or giraffes here. Eyes seemed to form in the clouds, and the faces surrounding them were ghost faces. They twisted into shapes that didn’t look like normal faces. The mouths were either missing or were giant holes, large enough to eat you with, my dear. He sat very still and thought, quiet da mouse, quiet da mouse, as the eyes looked in all directions. The song with no music flew into his head again, only louder this time. Again and again it sang. The eyes hovered in the clouds, turning, rolling in all directions. They looked forward and backward at the same time. They were the eyes of a monster.

  He clinched his own eyes shut and pretended to be a tiny mouse, not moving, and let the song flow through him. A strange little noise caught his attention; a tiny scratching sound somewhere in the dark—maybe another scared mouse, he thought. If it was scared, he should try to protect it, but he didn’t know how. The mouse probably couldn’t see the eyes, and he wanted to warn it to run away, but like the frog, he wasn’t sure if he could teach it to talk. He chanced a look at the swirling clouds again and the eyes were now those of a giant; large and watery, they hung in the air right above his head. They had floated closer to him, but still couldn’t see him. The eyes were angry.

  Far off in the distance, two faint shimmering lights suddenly appeared. They hovered close to each other for a long time, then finally moved toward him in a slow, wavery dance. He imagined they could be small fairies or ghosts floating in the air. He had never seen a fairy or a ghost, but was sure he didn’t want to see one tonight. Somewhere in the dark he heard the mouse scurry about again. It made a strange sound for a mouse that was sure to draw the eyes to him.

  Tica-tica-tica-tica floated in the cold night air as the far-off lights drifted closer.

  Chapter 54

  Friday

  Jo walked into Armand’s kitchen after a few hours of restless sleep. The sweet smell of pipe tobacco hung in the air and mingled with the aroma of strong coffee. Mama Dedé sat at the kitchen table and eyed her as she entered.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” the woman said to Jo.

  “Not very well. I was worried about Del.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Jo shuffled her feet as she debated on sitting down or going back to bed. The older woman had been watching her ever since she showed up last night.

  “Take a seat,” she said, and nodded at the cups Armand had set on the table.

  Jo sat quietly and poured her coffee. She looked at the sugar bowl sitting in front of the woman but didn’t ask. She sipped at the strong black coffee and tried to hide the bitter taste as it wrinkled her face.

  “Heh,” the woman sniffed and pushed the bowl towards Jo.

  Nodding her thanks and spooning more sugar than she intended, Jo sipped and failed again at hiding the cloying sweetness she had just choked down and that now swirled in her cup.

  “Pssh, girl, you about da worst liar I ever seen,” Mama Dedé said as she settled back into her chair, holding her cup on bosoms that spilled onto the table.

  “What? Why do you say—”

  “Don’t waste your time, honey. I done heard everything you can come up with, and plenty you cain’t imagine.”

  Jo looked at the sugar bowl and felt a sick feeling rise in her throat.

  “You and I are gonna get straight, right here and right now. I can find out what I need to know. I have da sight, you know.” At this, Jo’s eyes widened to small saucers. “But I ain’t got much time, so don’t go wastin’ it. And more important, Del ain’t got da time to waste, neither. So, you straighten up and tell me how you involved.”

  Relief rushed over Jo as she inhaled a deep breath and started her story. She told her of how she first met the strange man in the cemetery, the promise he had made to her, and how she had tricked the nun to follow her that night. With a final gush of air, she told the woman about the beast and seeing the nun as she was carried away. She was honest when she said she didn’t remember anything after that, and had wandered the streets trying to think of what to do.

  When the story was done, Jo sat slumped in the kitchen chair; tears brimmed in her eyes. The truth had drained her, and she felt tired again. She felt like she could sleep for days.

  Mama Dedé sat looking at the young girl and did not speak. She could sense the heavy burden that lay upon her. She knew part of it was regret, and felt it was appropriate, but part of what the woman felt was something the girl could not yet fathom. Like Jacob Marley, Jo had forged the first link of an invisible chain that would hang about her forever. She knew people called it different names: a stain, bad karma, sin. Regardless of the word used to describe it, in the end—and if heavy enough—it would drag her down to the same dark depths.

  Armand quietly ran his hands over his books in the second-floor library. He knew that his guests were beginning to stir, but he was intent on finding something that could help them. He was hoping there was a lost tome or hidden scrap of parchment that would expose a clue as to what to do next. He puffed at his pipe and twisted his mustache as if these acts would materialize the hidden clue. He drummed his fingers on the large worktop table and rearranged papers to no effect. He walked around the table and looked at his books from a different angle. Gazing over the shelves, he spied an overstuffed folder laying in one corner. It was his research folder for his book on the origins of spells and curses. An inner excitement sparkled in his mind as he walked to it. He puffed his pipe to a chimney stack as his fingertips danced together; a safecracker preparing for his job. He sat the folder on the worktable and began carefully thumbing the pages.

  After several minutes, he came to some clipped pages from an old newspaper. It was the article about Frank when he solved the Glapion murders. Yes, this is it. He scanned the pages carefully.

  Armand had forgotten he even had the clippings, but had stowed them away as part of his research. The Glapion murders were sensational when they’d happened, but wouldn’t have made it into his research if not for the strange passages that were written on the walls.

  In both the house at 113 Bayou Rd. and the jail cell, the strange words of:

  * * *

  Ouvre baye pou mwen, Papa!

  Ouvre baye pou mwen!

  * * *

  had been written. The translation of course being:

  * * *

  Open the gate for me Papa!

  Open the gate for me!

  * * *

  A cascade of legends flooded Armand’s mind, and he turned from the work table with a sick flush; a sinister word association dizzying him. He spoke freely to the room. “Missing heads, abominations, yes…, tricky spells… oh yes, ouvre baye Papa, Gris-gris man, ouvre baye Papa Legba, Dr. John, Gris-gris man, Legba.”

  “Legba?” Frank said, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he walked toward the stairs. “What are you o
n to?”

  Armand sprinkled invisible dust in the air with both hands. Legba? The trickster god of the underworld? What had they stumbled into?

  “Yes, mon ami,” Armand said quickly, scooping up books and folders, “that is what I said. Legba.” And headed down the stairs after him.

  Jo climbed past them both, carrying a tray with coffee and toast for Del. She smiled weakly at each one.

  Armand set the books on the table with a heavy thud, where Mama Dedé had just spoken with Jo. He waited for Frank to be seated. He looked at them both with a twinkle in his eye.

  “What you got, Frenchy?”

  Armand grinned slyly. “Nothing more than a theory, but an interesting one indeed.”

  “It don’t have flying ‘gators, do it?” Frank asked.

  “Mon ami, this is serious,” Armand said with a tinge of hurt. “Please, indulge me.”

  Frank traded the cigar in his mouth for a sausage and mumbled some words of agreeance.

  Armand had already begun. “Our theory so far has been that the Gris-gris man is an altered version of Dr. John, who, through his Voodoo practices, raised a spirit—which one, we don’t know—but raised a spirit that gave him extra powers. Only the powers were a trick, and caused John to be trapped in a terrible state, and we know the rest.”

  Frank nodded his sausage in agreeance again. “Stho?” he said, holding the sausage with his teeth.

  “But what if it goes further than that? We explored on this briefly a few nights ago, when I mentioned the tragic story of young Otto, although I took the theory too far into Egypt. But then when Del mentioned that the Gris-gris man wanted a family, I was struck by what an odd goal that would be.”

  “How so?”

  “If I was just raised from the dead, I’m not sure a family would be the first thing on my wish list. I’d probably want my body back, then—”

  Armand saw the expression on Mama Dedé’s face and stopped.

  “He does have his body back,” she said.

  “What? How do you know?”

  “That girl up there,” she said quietly, “da one tendin’ to Del right now? She’s seen him.”

  “What? How?”

  “She made some kinda deal with him. It involved da flamin’ nun that burned down my house.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Frenchy, you better stop being so damn fascinated about my house burnin’ down or I’m gonna—”

  “Oh, forgive me, mon chéri, that’s not what I meant. How in the world did the girl get involved?”

  “That’s a long story that we ain’t got time for, now get on with your theory and let’s hear it.”

  “Of course, of course. Oh my, where to go now… So, if he has his body back—”

  “And don’t forget about dat blasted wolf-dog, cat, whatever it was,” Frank added. “Dat was da ugliest sumbitch I ever saw. I hit it, but der’s no guarantee it’s dead.”

  “The dog, of course! Or, the beast really. No, mon ami, I doubt it’s dead. I fear it is fed by a source other than mere mortal life.”

  “Why you say dat?”

  “The thing on its back, did you get a good look at it?”

  “Da doll? Just a glimpse right before I shot its horse.”

  “That doll, I believe it was alive.”

  “Bully you say! Why you think—”

  “Because after you fell off the chair, I—”

  “Da damn leg caught on a board!”

  “My pardons,” Armand said with a slight bow. “After you were disabled, I caught a glimpse of the wolf-beast galloping away. Somehow—I think it was your shot—but somehow the doll got spun around. Right before it galloped out of sight, I swear I saw the doll’s face come to life and then… then I heard it gibber at me.”

  Frank whistled his belief and leaned back in his chair, reflexively brushing some foreign debris from his shirt.

  “But I digress, we were speaking of…” and Armand had to sprinkle invisible powder with his fingers to pull his mind back to its task, “Del… let’s see, not Del, family… family, yes, something about… yes of course! Papa Legba!”

  “We were?”

  “Yes, yes, now please, no more interruptions. The diary of Otto the Younger mentions—however briefly—several Egyptian gods in conjunction with some very strange hieroglyphs and constellations. These gods are too numerous to discuss now, and will only confuse the theory, but it caused me to wonder what they may have in common. Any ideas?”

  “You da professor, Frenchy.”

  Armand calibrated his mustache slightly.

  “They all have messengers. In fact, depending on one’s interpretation, they all have the same messenger. Of course, this messenger god has different names: Eschu, Anansi, Elegua. But with the African people, he’s best known as Legba. The trickster god. He is supposedly one of the worst to deal with. He is the only one that can pass between worlds, and controls the gates to them. He presents himself as an old man… and travels with a dog.”

  Armand waited anxiously for his audience to process the story.

  Frank and Mama Dedé exchanged glances, then turned back to Armand.

  Armand’s hands adjusted invisible books in the air. “Don’t you see the similarities? A god that can pass between worlds, a trickster; strange evolving powers; two ancient cultures—the Egyptians and Africans—that share the same continent; migrating slaves; merging religions AND a grisly murder where both the perpetrators and victims called to the same deity: ouvre baye Papa.”

  “Da Glapions,” Frank said.

  “That’s right, Frank, the Glapion murders, your own case, may be the key here.”

  “Dat was bad business.”

  Armand nodded. “Black business, I’d say.”

  Concerned reality clouded the faces of his audience.

  “Once again, it’s just a theory, but I believe there is a chance that our problem is far older than we originally thought.”

  After a long silence, Frank said, “So how does dat help us now?”

  “Well, if the spirit that Dr. John raised all those years ago really is Legba, we’d have to find a very ancient spell to deal with him. I have most of the Egyptian Book of the Dead transcribed here in these tomes.” He patted the large pile. “If I can find the right spell, we may be able to—”

  “Stop!” Mama Dedé said, slapping her hands on the table. “Don’t be talkin’ about readin’ one more thing from a book you don’t know nothin’ about! Now I’ve done told both of you, these books aren’t to be fooled with. You done read from two grimoires already, we don’t know where da third is hidin’, and now you talkin’ about reading some Egyptian books? Do you know what is supposed to happen if you read from da third–

  “Damn!” she said, clamping her mouth tight and sitting on her hands.

  Frank and Armand exchanged knowing glances; Mama Dedé clearly had not meant to go down this line of conversation.

  “The third… what?” Armand asked cautiously. “You mean the missing grimoire?”

  She gave them both a scolding look. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “But I thought you weren’t aware of the existence of the three books? That first night when Frank and I came over, I pointed out that there was One of Three and—”

  “I know what you pointed out. I just made believe that I didn’t know much so you two knuckleheads wouldn’t go on asking me about da damn third book!”

  Armand looked slightly hurt as he closed the top book of his stack and took his seat. He tweaked his mustache slightly and began cleaning his pipe.

  “Oh, pecker up, Frenchy. If I’d bit you, you’d a felt it. Now here’s da only thing I’m ever gonna say about da third grimoire.”

  Both men adjusted in their seats like school children.

  “Those books—primarily just da one hellish spell—was separated into three parts a long time ago. I hear that no one knows exactly what da third book says, but it’s da last piece of a spell that should have never
been thought of, and it’ll trick you.”

  Armand raised his hand slightly and cautioned a question.

  “What do you mean, IT will trick you? Don’t you mean him?”

  “Damn Frenchy, you’re all over da theory, and just for the record, I think you may be right. I think old John maybe did call up Legba by mistake. But just as I said before, da legend is that you won’t know you reading da bad part of da spell until it’s too late. Once you do, and if da other parts have been read in da right order, da spell is cast—da binding spell—and you have to deal with whatever you just conjured, or whatever you just bound yourself to.”

  “But how would someone ever be tricked into reading a spell book that they didn’t want to read?”

  “Cause it don’t look like a spell book! And some folks say that it don’t even have spells in it, except for da last piece, but somehow it tricks you into reading them all in order. Then…” She hesitated, thinking she had already said too much.

  “Yes? What then?” Armand coaxed.

  “Then, da last thing you see is a sign from da demon who created da unholy thing.”

  “A sign? What kind of sign?”

  She sighed heavily, not wanting to speak the words. “Something—I don’t know what—but something appears in da third book once da spell is set. Some type of… death-chant response.”

  “What? A death chant?”

  “Yeah, a death chant. A message from da demon. It just up and speaks to you somehow. And God help da poor soul that sees it. That’s all I know and that’s all I’m sayin’, so don’t go on askin’. And that’s why you two cain’t be readin’ from just any ol’ book!”

  With that, she heaved herself from the table and marched toward the stairs that led up to Del’s room.

  Chapter 55

  Later that morning, Del emerged from her trancing session and walked into the second-floor library. She hadn’t left her room all morning. Frank was napping in a large chair by the cold fireplace, and Armand was hovering over some old papers.