by Tim Marquitz
“In the name of Azazel and infernal Belial;
“In the name of Hastur, Alar and Hali;
“In the name of all that is holy and all that is profane;
“In the name of Hades and the God of the Dead;
“Marianne, I call to you;
Marianne, I call you back.”
Again, a pause, this time so that I could stab my finger once more and let five further drops of blood fall into the shallow bowl; as they struck the greenish flame, a momentary cloud of vapor ascended and I resumed my chant.
“With my blood, I call to you;
“With my blood, I call you back.
“I call upon the Laughing God, He Who Laughs at Death;
“I call upon the Black Man, He Who Reveals Secrets;
“I call upon the Render of the Veils, He Who Is Unknowable;
“I call upon these three and upon all the Elder Gods to restore you to life.
“Marianne, I call to you;
“Marianne, I call you back.”
Once more I stood with the willow wand pointed at the crystal, which was glowing now with a strange inner light that seemed to make Marianne’s skin translucent so that I could see her skull through it.
“In the name of Tulu, I call to your soul;
“In the name of Nim, I call to your soul;
“In the name of Laxt, I call to your soul;
“I call upon these three and upon all the Elder Gods to restore you to life.
“Heed my call and return to me!
“Heed my call, Marianne! Heed my call!
“In the name of the Unknowable One;
“In the name of the All-in-One;
“In the name of the Ineffable One;
I summon you back from beyond the Gates of Death.
“Return!
“Return! Say I!
“Iä! Mortheran! Iä! Tinthelo!
“Return to me!
“Return! Return!”
The chant became a scream of desperation, an orgasmic cry to my beloved’s soul in whichever abyss it lay, an uninhibited cry of love and despair. I cried the words with more passion than I had before, praying to the mysterious Nim and the unholy Hastur that it would work again, that it would bring my Marianne back to life.
I fell sobbing to my knees as the flame flared and the light from the crystal strobed brightly. Then, the flame died and all the candles were extinguished by a sudden and momentary breeze that carried a vile smell of decay upon it. The glow from the crystal vanished and I was plunged into an impenetrable darkness; even the wan light of the moon was gone, as if hidden behind a sudden cloud.
I became aware of a distant whispering. For one panicked moment, I imagined it was the curious conversation of villagers attracted by my scream, then realized that the sounds were echoes of the ritual chant:
“Iä! Iä!” I heard, and, “Tulu. Nim. Hali. Lir.”
Were my words echoing back from some distant corner of the crypt? I wasn’t sure then and still don’t know; amongst them I thought I heard other whispered words that I couldn’t make out and which didn’t sound like those of the ritual. Certainly, hearing the words interwoven with a refrain of “Return… Return…” chilled my blood. It had not been like this when I’d raised the dog. This was different and I didn’t understand why.
Then, I caught a barely audible whisper of “Marianne…” and there was a sudden soft green glow and the candles sparked back into life to the accompaniment of a long, wheezing breath. I looked down in delighted shock to see Marianne restored to the image I knew from her portrait, arching her back as she sucked in lungfuls of air.
I shouted her name in delight and she stared at me, wild eyed and fearful, gasping for breath.
“Do not fear me!” I gabbled. “My name is John Peggy. My mother was a Devereux! My grandfather’s grandfather was your brother! Over a century has passed since your death! I’ve raised you back to life! We can be together forever, now, my love!”
I had to repeat my words more slowly as he bewildered expression told me she hadn’t comprehended anything I’d said.
“I died and yet am returned from death?” she asked with a dreamy air.
I assured her it was so.
“I remember a dark abyss and whispering voices,” she said, her gaze unfocused. “I knew not how long I was there…then I was here…”
“Yes, I brought you back.” I helped her to stand; Marianne was still a little unsteady.
“Prinn’s ritual served its purpose?”
“Yes.”
She smiled in a manner that unnerved me a little.
“I feel weak,” she murmured, then, shaking her head slightly, added: “So, you are my savior, John? The wise warlock who rescued me from the clutches of the dead.”
“All for love,” I told her.
She smiled coyly. “However may I reward you?”
She didn’t have to ask me twice. I stepped into the pentacle and took her in my arms, ardent yet attempting to be gentle. I didn’t want to hurt or frighten her. She welcomed my embrace and returned my kisses with equal vigor.
Marianne made no objection as I hitched up her skirts and we fell to the floor of the crypt and I began to make love to her. As her face contorted with ecstasy, her skin began to crack and grow tight and I stared horrified as she began to revert to her state as a desiccated corpse. I began to shriek in anguish, not knowing what to do to halt the decay, and tried to pull away from her. But, Marianne wouldn’t let me go.
“Tulu! Nim!” I cried in desperation to the blasphemous names I’d earlier called upon. “Hali! Don’t take her from me!”
I was staring down into sunken eyes like a pair of poached eggs, vomit rising in my throat. Her lips were moving and she was mouthing strange syllables.
“Don’t leave me!” I sobbed at her.
Suddenly, she tilted her head and sank her teeth into the side of my neck. I cried with the pain and was certain I felt blood escape from the wound. She bit deeper, masticating my flesh with a viciousness that went beyond lovemaking and was fuelled with an unholy desperation. I felt her suckling at the flow, drinking my blood.
Her cracked, parchment skin was becoming whole and supple once more. As she revived, I felt myself growing weaker. Horrified, I recalled the words I had chanted—With my blood I call you back!—and realized that it was my lifeblood that had called her back from beyond the Gates of Death. There were also those words penned by Julius in his Gloss that had seemed as irrelevant as anything else he’d written, but now held a dread weight in light of Marianne’s annotation of Prinn with the Biblical “The blood is the life’: “It is written by the sophist Silander that when one comes forth, another shall leave.”
Marianne’s life was dependent upon my death…
I had worked so hard to bring her back and, now, was being forced to choose between her life and mine. Which was not much of a choice as, no matter how much I desired her resurrection, it was predicated upon my desire for us to be together; I wasn’t prepared to die for love.
Desperately, I tried to pull away, but she clung to me, suckling hard. She had no hesitation in her actions.
I clumsily head-butted her and felt her nose crack. Taking advantage of her surprise, I rolled off her and out of the pentacle.
“John!” she howled, my blood dribbling down her chin as she groggily stood.
Ignoring her imploring cries, I ran for my backpack. Having heeded Prinn’s warning that the ritual could attract the attention of demonic beings and that the slightest error could summon up some hellish blasphemy, I’d brought with me a smooth stone inscribed with the Elder Sign according to the procedure outlined by Alhazred. I doubted that Marianne’s place had been taken by some horror, it was all too clear that she’d known what the ritual entailed and had no compunctions in doing what she had to do to ensure she’d live, but I had some hope that the stone might hold her back or destroy her given her unnatural, unfinished state.
I held the stone f
orth, but, although she paused to gaze at it a moment, it seemed to have no effect upon her; she advanced upon me. I began to chant the words from the Gloss that Julius claimed would ward off evil, but they had no more effect than the stone.
With no other option presenting itself, I struck her with the stone, causing her to fall to the floor with a bloody gash to her scalp.
She looked up at me with anguished eyes and I struck her again, then again and again.
She attempted to crawl towards me.
“In the name of Nim and Laxt,” I screamed at her, slamming down another blow “won’t you just die? Be gone!”
It may have been my imagination, but I thought the stone glowed; I smashed it into her skull again and Marianne collapsed, unmoving.
I tried to remember the chant for driving off a demonic spirit as recorded by Prinn.
“I call upon Uzriel to shield me from harm;
“I call upon dread Babeloth to drive away demons and lamiae;
“I call upon Kish to protect me from the Outsiders.”
I paused to smash her with the stone again.
“I cry out to the Laughing God to come to my defense;
“I cry out to the Black Man to lead me to safety;
“I cry out to the Render of the Veils to seal the breach.
“Be gone! Be gone! Be gone!”
I wasn’t certain those last words were part of the chant or not, but I brought down the stone each time I spoke them.
Gasping for breath, I let the stone slip from my fingers; it wasn’t glowing, but was smeared with blood and broken fragments of bone and skin. I stared at Marianne as she returned to her corpse state as if the ritual had never happened, her skull staved in grotesquely. From somewhere, a sound like mocking laughter echoed about me, then I heard the voice of the Vicar calling down to me, “Who’s there? What’s going on?”
I stared down at Marianne’s ruined corpse, not knowing what to do. I knew no spell to save me now.
Gingerbread Man
Rose Strickman
The worst thing about being dumped, Sarah had decided, was when she forgot. The little moments: like when she was listening to the radio while mixing the cake batter and smiled, reminding herself to tell Tom about that story on the news; or when she woke up on one side of the bed and reached out, in confusion, for the warm body she was sure must be there. Those moments made remembering all the more painful.
“You’ve just got to forget about him, Sarah!” Eileen shouted over the din of the bar. “Old Tomald Trump’s an asshole. There’s thousands like him.” She sipped her cocktail.
“Thanks, Eileen,” Sarah said gloomily. “That just makes me feel tons better.” She took her own, moody swig, leaning on the polished bar. “But that’s what I’m telling you. It’s when I forget that it hurts.”
“No,” Eileen said, wagging a finger at her. She was a tall, dark woman, considerably more put-together than the pale, wan little Sarah. “That’s when you forget that he dumped you and threw you out of your own apartment. You need to forget about him.”
“It wasn’t my apartment. It was his. And I can’t forget about him.” Sarah felt tears prick her eyes. “I just can’t. Everything reminds me of him. It’s like I’m swimming through a sea of Tom, just getting through the day.”
Eileen gave her arm a friendly thwack, slightly harder, perhaps, than she’d meant to; they’d both had a lot to drink. “You need a new apartment, Sarah-girl. I know that little flat is your childhood home and all, but it can’t be good for you, living on the same damn street as his damn building.”
“East Street Luxury Towers,” Sarah said bitterly. She slumped against the bar. “The building he goddamn owns.”
“Just a block away,” Eileen agreed. “Where you used to live, and where he still lives. No wonder you can’t get Tomald out of your mind.” Her eyes widened, and she flapped her hands in sudden excitement. “Hey, Sarah!”
“What?” Sarah looked up from her gloomy reverie.
“I’ve just had this amazing idea! You know you’re doing gingerbread at the bakery, right?”
“Seasonal specialty. Why?”
“Well, why don’t you make a gingerbread version of Tomald Trump’s precious Towers? You could make it, and then all of us girls could have a party, write swearwords on it in icing! Then we’d knock it down and eat it! Get back at Tomald!”
This was such an arresting image that it almost distracted Sarah from her misery. “That would be something.”
“Wouldn’t it!” Eileen grinned proudly. “So you make the tower, Sarah-girl, and let me know when it’s done. It’d be a great party! Meanwhile, I know several delectable guys who would be only too happy to distract you from Tomald…”
Sarah slumped back, letting Eileen’s words wash over her. Her misery was seeping back, like black water through cracks in the earth. It was always like this: she couldn’t forget her unhappiness, except for those exquisitely agonizing moments when she thought she had Tom back. Tom, Tom the real estate developer. Tom the rich, the dashingly handsome, Tom who had, for a time, been hers. Before he decided that he no longer wanted her.
“…So, I’ll set you up,” Eileen finished. “Saturday evening work for you?”
“What?” Sarah looked up. “What? No! Eileen, I don’t want to be set up!”
“It’ll be good for you,” Eileen declared. She signaled the bartender, who handed her the bill. “Trust me, Rahul’s absolutely gorgeous. If anyone can take your mind off Tomald Trump, it’s him.” She signed her name with a flourish and stood up.
“I think I’ve had enough of gorgeous guys,” Sarah muttered rebelliously as she wrapped herself back into her coat and scarf and slid off the barstool. The tears threatened again: Tom had given her this green scarf. Stop it, Sarah. This is pathetic.
Outside, the cold hit them like a fist, a blast of icy air on their exposed faces. It did at least have the advantage of sobering them up; yelping with cold, they hurried on, parting at the end of the block.
“So let me know when the gingerbread party is!” Eileen called before dashing off to catch a taxi.
Sarah waved farewell and set off along the sidewalk, back to East Street. It wasn’t far, but she almost wished she’d gotten Eileen to walk back with her; to get home, she had to walk past East Street Luxury Towers. The apartment complex loomed tall over the other buildings, its warm lighted windows gleaming through the darkness. The old-fashioned, wrought-iron streetlamp illuminated its brickwork, the white gleam of a lintel; and the pillared porch, which glowed with its own fancy light.
It was starting to snow, handfuls of flakes spitting down. She knew she should hurry on, but she found herself slowing down, stopping to stare at the building. It was made of purposely distressed brown brick; every windowsill and lintel was fashioned from white marble. To preserve the historical authenticity of the neighborhood, in Tom’s own words, even though his Luxury Towers were the newest structure on East Street. Sarah couldn’t see the top of the great façade, but she knew there was a fancy marble decal there, and behind the façade was the penthouse.
A taxi growled up, and Sarah tore her eyes from the Towers to watch through the gathering snow as two figures climbed out, pulling each other out and laughing. Her stomach clenched as she recognized one of them.
Tom was escorting the blonde lady up the steps toward the Towers. Tom, just as movie-star handsome as ever, with his shining red hair and sparkling eyes. Tom, still wearing his impeccable suit. Tom, just as happy and confident as before, not even seeing Sarah as he waltzed the red-clad tootsie up the steps and into the building.
To the elevator, Sarah knew with a sick sinking sensation, and then to the penthouse. She knew exactly how it must look in there right now; knew because, for six months, she had lived there herself. With Tom.
A high-pitched noise tore itself out of her throat. Bending her head against the wind, she hurried on through the snowstorm, her tears drying cold on her cheeks.
#<
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Missus Cupcake, unlike East Street Luxury Towers, was situated in a genuinely historic old building, having been in Sarah’s family for years. It had belonged to Sarah’s grandmother before her; it had been Mary’s Bakery back then, not specializing in cupcakes. Grandma had raised Sarah there, after a car crash left her orphaned, in the tiny apartment above the shop. Sarah had lived away from it for only six months of her life—and those six months had been with Tom.
Now Sarah made her way to the back door, blindly. She fumbled with her icy keys, clumsy with shock and cold. She sobbed at the delay, trying frantically to insert the key; finally, she got the door open. Stumbling in, she pushed it shut behind her.
Only then did she sink down, harsh sobs wracking out of her, purse falling away unheeded. She stayed in the dark hallway a long time, crouched down, clutching herself, cold and weeping in the dark.
At last she took a long, shaky breath. She wiped her tears away, angrily, before slowly standing up.
She wanted her grandmother. She wanted to hear Grandma moving around the kitchen, whispering her strange little chants over the cakes and frosting; see her turn and smile as Sarah came in. Her grandmother was long dead. But the kitchen was still there.
Sarah went down the hall, therefore, and threw her purse onto the kitchen counter. She snapped on the light, blinking as it buzzed on. Missus Cupcake might be in a historic building in a historic neighborhood, but its kitchen was completely modern, hygienic and up-to-date; even now, Sarah took pride in how sparkling clean she and her assistants left it every evening. Grandma would be pleased.
She wondered what her grandmother would think of Eileen’s proposal. She’d probably approve; she’d always believed in the power of food. Sarah shrugged; why not?
She headed over to the walk-in refrigerator. Swinging the door open, she marched in to grab a large metal tray. Carefully, she heaved it out and placed it on the counter, closing the door behind her.
Next, she marched to the frosting fridge. Missus Cupcake always made their own frosting; part of their marketing was that they were an old-fashioned bakery, making everything from scratch. But there was a tub of ready-made white icing in the fridge, carefully marked with its age and flavor. Sarah brought it out.
