Black Rite

by Allen Caraway

  CHAPTER ONE

  On the evening of September 12, 2015, I found my brother in a clearing half a mile from his house. He was dead. Gary had doused himself with gasoline and then lit a match. By the time I reached him, he was unrecognizable; the handsome and athletic man I had known reduced to a charred skeletal lump of meat.

  His suicide note was short and cryptic: It won’t leave me alone. I’m sorry.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ I said, kneeling down to get a closer look. ‘Is that dried blood?’

  Stefano nodded. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  I had inherited Gary’s ranch near Harkinen, a small mountain town in Northern California, and moved in a month after his death, hiring Stefano and his crew to redecorate. I looked up at him. Stefano was a tall, stocky man in his mid-thirties who bore the battle scars of his errant youth, favored rude T-shirts and swore like a dockworker. He’d moved to Harkinen from New York ten years ago and I had grown to like him because he was honest, hardworking, reliable and blunt. Now, however, his usual good-humored cockiness had gone. He stood rigidly still in Gary’s den, all color washed from his face, staring at the floorboards in wide-eyed disbelief.

  ‘Gary painted this? In blood?’

  ‘It definitely wasn’t here when he moved in.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘And you never saw it?’

  I nodded at the large rug that Stefano had rolled back. ‘No. He only bought that last summer.’

  ‘To cover it up.’

  ‘Yeah, looks like it.’

  ‘Big fuckin’ rug.’

  ‘Big fuckin’ circle.’

  It was ten feet in diameter. At its center was a depiction of a cobra. Surrounding it were various sigils and several words in a language that I didn’t recognize. Beside it was a smaller circle inside a triangle.

  ‘Aren’t these used to summon demons and shit?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘I didn’t know your brother was into the occult.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  I shrugged. ‘There were no signs. He was just … Gary, y’know? The same old Gary.’

  I felt cold, afraid. What the hell had he done? How could he be so damn stupid? I thought I had known him better than anyone, even our parents. Gary and I had spent so much time together we were more like best friends than brothers and he had never once shown even the remotest interest in the occult.

  ‘That would explain why he’d stopped going to church,’ I said.

  Stefano gave me a level look. ‘Neither do you.’

  ‘I’m a lapsed Catholic, Stef, not a closet occultist. Anyway, I only stopped going last year. Gary stopped going eleven years ago. I’d assumed he’d just had enough after being dragged to church three times a week, then attending Sunday school and going to a Catholic middle school.’

  We looked at the circle.

  ‘That blood’ll be a bitch to get out,’ Stefano said.

  ‘Let’s find out.’ I Googled “how to remove dried blood stains from wood floors” on my iPhone and then scanned a few articles. ‘Well, apparently it’s do-able, but yeah, it’ll take time and lots of sweat. That wouldn’t be enough for me, though. I’d rather just get the floorboards replaced. It’ll cost, but fuck it, I’d be happier.’

  ‘My old man could do that.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s a buildin’ contractor. You’ve talked to him at church a coupla times, remember?’

  An image of a tall stocky man in his early sixties appeared in my mind. ‘Oh yeah, Aurelio, right?’

  Stefano nodded. ‘I’ve got a few of his cards in my wallet.’ He took one out and handed it to me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Better get Father Kearney in to bless this place when Pop has finished. God only knows what Gary let loose.’

  It won’t leave me alone.

  ‘Mm. Was thinking the same thing.’

  I returned to the front parlor, which Gary had used as his TV room, and resumed going through his stuff, trying to decide what to keep and what to give away but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was the magic circle and my brother’s decision to keep his activities a secret from me. I began to wonder if I had made the right decision in moving here. The sooner I asked Father Kearney to come over, the better.

  Ten minutes later, Stefano yelled, ‘There’s somethin’ else!’

  What now, I thought as I walked out of the room. ‘What is it?’

  ‘More bad shit!’

  ‘Bad shit? I said as I entered the den.

  Stefano inclined his head towards a hole in the floor where he had removed one of the boards. ‘In there.’

  I looked at the hole, then at him. ‘What, under the floorboards?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. One of ‘em was loose. There’s a bunch of occult books in there. Freaked me out.’

  ‘Shit. Well, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised.’

  Stefano handed me his penlight and I shone the bright narrow beam into the hole. Stuffed under the floorboards and covered in dust were dozens of books, including a big leather bound volume and a lockable journal.

  ‘My God, there’s a ton of them!’

  ‘Wanna get ‘em out?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s take up some more floorboards.’

  We found ninety-six books. I stacked them into piles and then flicked through some of them. The big book was entitled The Grimoire of Masdael. It weighed a ton and looked ancient, the leather dry and cracked, the text handwritten in faded old English on brittle parchment. The others ranged from Witchcraft to Satanism. There was also an occult dictionary, three books about the Order of Aritenkhede – whatever the hell that was - and two occult encyclopedias. I felt a mixture of emotions as I looked through them. Alarm, because I didn’t like the idea of Gary messing around with the occult, and curiosity: why had he put them under the floorboards? Did he fear that someone would break in and find them, or that I would see them and start asking questions?

  ‘Don’t wanna mess with that shit,’ Stefano said.

  ‘No.’

  I turned over A Guide to the Old Religion, one of the books on Witchcraft, and read the back cover. The author’s name was Richard Beaumont, apparently a high priest who had been practicing the craft, as the blurb called it, his entire life and was currently Professor of Theoretical Physics at the University of California, Berkeley.

  ‘Jeez,’ I said, ‘this guy’s a physicist.’

  ‘You’re kiddin’?’

  ‘Nope.’ I pointed at the author photograph. It showed a gray-haired, bearded, bald man in his late sixties with a wide thin-lipped mouth. He stared into the camera through rimless glasses; expression stern, confident.

  ‘That guy looks fuckin’ scary,’ Stefano said.

  I looked at him. ‘Can’t imagine you being scared by anyone.’

  He shrugged.

  I put it down and tried to open the journal but couldn’t. ‘Did you find a key for this?’

  ‘Nah. Do you think it’s Gary’s?’

  ‘Yeah, I think it probably is. I’ll take these into the kitchen and stick ‘em in a cupboard until I figure out what to do with them.’

  ‘Burn ‘em.’

  ‘Yeah, might just do that.’

  ~

  Gary and I had grown up in Harkinen and when our parents died in an automobile accident twelve years ago, Gary used his half of the inheritance to buy North Oak Ranch, a historic and tranquil 122 acre property that had stunning three hundred and sixty degree views of the Four Nations Alps. After probate, we drove over to assess the place
and I spent the seven and a half mile trip from town trying to persuade Gary not to buy it.

  ‘Bro, it’s been on the market since Moses was in diapers. It’s falling apart and probably crawling with termites.’

  ‘Do you remember coming here as kids?’ Gary said.

  I glanced at him. A year older than me. Shorter but more powerfully built. Thick, collar length wavy brown hair. Leaner facial structure than mine. A perpetually serious demeanor. He always seemed to have something on his mind and when our parents died, the extended periods of silence became even longer.

  ‘Yeah. You used to tell me that one day you’d buy the place.’

  ‘And I am.’

  ‘You’re fucking crazy.’

  ‘Takes one to know one, turd breath.’

  He grinned at me. I grinned back.

  ‘You’d know, pussy lips.’

  We passed under a traditional log gate and bumped down a long dusty dirt road until we came to an old wooden carriage house and a barn on our left, a small dark green clapboard house a few yards further down on the right, the larger main residence beside it.

  ‘How much can you remember about this place?’ Gary said.

  ‘Not much. Remind me.’

  ‘Okay.’ He pointed at the carriage house. ‘That was a stagecoach stop on the old Oregon-California trail.’

  We pulled up beside the main residence and I put the shifter into park and turned off the engine.

  ‘There used to be another house here, built in 1858,’ Gary said, ‘but it burned down in 1899. Used to be the area’s telegraph station. This one was built in 1900.’

  We got out and I scanned the façade and the large weed infested front yard. ‘Dude, look at the place. It’s a dump. To call it a fixer-upper would be an understatement. It’s gonna need to be completely renovated. Not just this building but all of them.’

  What I wasn’t prepared to say was that, despite my reservations, I understood why he was smitten with North Oak. The main house was Victorian architecture at its finest. However, the clapboard sidings were cracked and rotting and the paint – a mixture of creamy greens, pale blues and browns - were blistered and peeling. Several of the gray roof tiles were missing and all of the windowpanes on the second floor and in the attic were broken, no doubt the work of local kids throwing rocks; the ground floor windows and front and rear doors boarded up. Yet despite the neglect and decay, the building still had a strong, majestic quality to it.

  Gary looked around wistfully. ‘I bet it was a real showpiece once, but McCray’s really let it go.’ He pointed at the small green house. ‘There’s two guesthouses. That one, which is known as Miner’s Cottage, and Pioneer Cottage, which is about six hundred yards thatta way.’ Gary pointed down the drive. ‘There’s also a detached garage with an apartment, a home office building, another barn, four holiday cabins, numerous other outbuildings and there’s even an old powerhouse that housed the waterwheel which provided electricity to the ranch.’

  I nodded. ‘Done your research.’

  Gary grinned. ’Yup.’

  I walked across the drive, leaned on a fence and looked around. The pine forest that surrounded the ranch, plus the black locust and oak trees that grew in the front and backyards, not only gave the occupier excellent privacy but they also reduced the noise from Route 270. As we explored the property, I noticed that I could barely hear the distinctive engine sound of a Harley thundering down the highway.

  Privacy and silence, something that Gary needed more than I did.

  We walked around infused with diametric feelings. From the expression on his face, I suspected that Gary was making mental notes and imagining what it would look like when renovated. I frowned and repeatedly shook my head.

  Gary stepped onto the porch, which ran all the way to the rear of the house, his boots making a click-clack sound on the wooden boards.

  ‘I’m gonna check out the backyard,’ he said.

  ‘Be careful. Those boards are probably rotten.’

  ‘Good point.’

  I followed him and discovered that ‘backyard’ was a rather optimistic word for the unfenced and overgrown clearing that separated the house from the trees. We wandered around and then slowly made our way back to the driveway.

  ‘You’ll have to shell out a fortune to put it right,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe not. We helped Mom and Dad restore their house in town, remember? Just a matter of finding the right contractors and suppliers, and I can handle the electrics, decorating, stuff like that.’

  ‘You really like this place, huh.’

  ‘Does it show?’

  ‘You look like a lovesick teenager.’

  Gary gestured towards the house. ‘Yeah, but look at this place. It’s got so much character. Given time and some serious sweat it could be gorgeous.’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ll give you that. It’s got old world charm all right, but buying a property with your heart and not your head is asking for trouble. You know that. And do you really want to take on a renovation project and then run a ranch?’

  ‘I think it’s exactly what I need. Since Mom and Dad died, I’ve had too much time to think. I need to keep busy, otherwise I’ll go nuts. As to running a ranch, remember that we used to work on Uncle Jack’s, so yeah, I think I can handle it.’

  ‘True, but what about money? Can you afford to buy this place and renovate it?’

  ‘With just my inheritance and a mortgage, no. But I’ll rent out the guesthouses and the cabins when they’re ready and Guy Deschamps has been leasing the pastures from Brett McCray for fifteen years now. Plus, as the Chilton River bisects the property and it’s got sturgeon and rainbow trout, I could probably make some extra money if I set up a little bait shop. So, with the income I’ll make from those plus what I make at work, I’ll be able to easily cover the mortgage and the renovation. Eventually, I’ll quit my job and work on the ranch full time.’

  ‘You’ve really thought it through.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So you’re gonna buy it?’

  ‘If the price is right, sure. And I’ll negotiate until it is.’

  I gave him a wry smile. ‘I bet you will.’

  ~

  Architecturally speaking, Harkinen was bland and easy to forget. In 1967, a wildfire destroyed most of the historic western architecture, the buildings eventually replaced by dull contemporary designs. Some storeowners had attempted to liven them up by painting colorful murals on the walls, most depicting the local landscape. Tony Ryan, a member of the Hoopa nation and a friend of mine since first grade, had painted a band of warriors holding up a stagecoach. Three of them had raised it onto makeshift jacks and were stealing the wheels. Most of the locals thought it was amusing. In spite of its snooze worthy architecture, Harkinen was a pleasant town in which to live. Located at the southern end of Channon Valley, the Four Nations National Forest and the lush trees that lined the sidewalks gave Harkinen a warm, snug feeling.

  When I pulled up in front of the post office the day after Stefano’s discoveries, my godfather was standing on the sidewalk, talking to a scrawny old man who looked as if he had just stepped out of the 1850s. He had a tanned heavily wrinkled face, a large unkempt white beard, wore a dusty gray shirt, filthy jeans and work boots; a ragged western hat tilted back on his head.

  Standing next to them was Heather, my godfather’s daughter. She saw me, waved and walked over to my truck.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said as I climbed out.

  ‘Hey.’

  Heather wrapped her arms around my waist. ‘How’re ya doing?’

  I shrugged and attempted a smile. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She didn’t look convinced.

  Two years my junior, Heather was a tall skinny freckly redhead who had her father’s gray eyes and square jaw, an infectious smile that always seemed to hover just below the surface inherited from her late mother. She and Jack were the only family I had left and it m
ade me acutely aware of their mortality. Every second I spent with them was treasured.

  I nodded at the old man. ‘I can’t believe that Beau Harkinen is still alive. Haven’t seen him in ages. I thought he’d croaked.’

  Heather laughed. ‘Oh no, not Beau. Too stubborn. When the grim reaper finally shows up, Beau’ll probably tell him to take a hike.’

  ’Wouldn’t surprise me. Is he still the richest man in the county?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I know I’ve said this before, but the guy looks like a down on his luck miner. Hard to believe that his family literally rebuilt this town.’

  In 1850, Duncan M. James discovered gold in Channon Valley. As news of the discovery spread, thousands of miners descended upon the area and within a year a thriving town, then known as Saxon Falls, had replaced their tent city. In 1910, Saxon Falls became Harkinen, renamed in honor of its most celebrated citizen, Beau’s great-grandfather, Ramiro.

  When he arrived in 1903, the former boomtown had fallen upon hard times. Already a rich man, Ramiro bought the old mines, the remaining land and all of the town’s vacant wooden buildings. He tore them down and rebuilt the town in brick, including lumber mills and logging operations. He also built new homes and rented them out at rates that even the poorest families could afford. Ramiro created so many jobs that several families from neighboring towns ended up moving to Saxon Falls. By 1908, the town was thriving again.

  ‘Don’t let the decrepit prospector look fool you,’ Heather said. ‘Beau may be as old as Moses, but he’s still as sharp as a tack and he’s employed a Harvard Business School hotshot to run the Harkinen empire while he spends most of his time tinkering around in those old mines. Occasionally he finds some gold and celebrates by going to a strip club in Eureka.’

  ‘He does?’

  The incredulous look on my face made Heather laugh again. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Man, I’m so out of touch with town gossip.’

  ‘No bad thing.’ She looked at Beau for a moment. ‘Old age certainly hasn’t diminished his carnal desires.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  The thought of a twenty year old girl writhing on his crotch was just plain surreal, and slightly nauseating.