Demon Lights

by Michael M. Hughes

“Step outside when you are ready.” Claire left the room and closed the door.

  Ray glared at the blank faces of the tylers. “Stop looking at me like that.” Neither of them blinked. He cursed as he pulled his shirt over his head.

  He was led in a procession through a long, tight passage with Jeremy and Claire close behind him. The hallway was completely dark, and in the flickering light of the tylers’ torches, Ray saw paintings on the walls. Humans with animal heads, monstrous creatures, and strange hieroglyphics. This was too much like the night in Blackwater when he’d been dragged in chains by Lily and Crawford’s robed cultists through the woods. Driven like a dog to the hideous, grasping stone hand where Micah, his throat slashed, had died in a pool of blood while Ellen lay naked and bound on the central altar. Where the thing that came down from the skies—demonic and alien—had stepped inside his body like it was trying on a suit.

  “Almost there,” Claire whispered as they descended a steep flight of stone stairs.

  A cold breeze came from below. In the thin robe he might as well have been naked. Down they went. More steps, deeper into the earth. The stone walls ended abruptly, replaced by rough-hewn rock. And then a door opened, its hinges squeaking, and the Council members in front of him fanned out. Claire took his arm gently and led him into a cavern.

  Jeremy stood beside what looked like a throne carved into the rock. In front of it was a table or altar made of polished black stone. A ceramic goblet sat atop it. The room smelled of rich, earthy incense.

  The tylers took their places in front of the door.

  Jeremy handed his torch to the woman next to him and raised his hands. “Brothers and sisters, we gather to welcome the initiate, Ray Simon, into the Great Hall of the Mysteries. If found worthy, he shall be admitted to this most ancient and holy order.” The torch flame wavered in his eyes. “Brother tylers, secure the temple against all Cowans, eavesdroppers, and the profane.”

  The tylers snapped to attention, then nodded to Claire.

  “The temple is well guarded,” Claire stated flatly.

  “All give the sign of the Opener,” Jeremy said. The Council members crossed their arms across their chests, extended them as if welcoming a hug, then brought their hands together as if praying.

  “Hekas, hekas, este bebeloi!” Jeremy shouted. “All unwelcome spirits flee before me! Depart, all ye profane!”

  “Depart!” the Council echoed.

  Jeremy held his hands above the assembly. “Brothers and sisters, join me in the invocation.”

  They all chanted together in a language Ray didn’t recognize.

  Jeremy lifted the cup from the black altar and held it high in front of him. “The lustral waters of the earth, blood of rock and stone.” He held the cup out to Ray. “Drink, candidate of the Mysteries, for of water thou art made.”

  Ray stared.

  “Drink it,” Claire whispered.

  God damn this. The last time someone had made him drink against his will had been in Sabina’s wretched hut—and that nauseating mixture of blood and hallucinogenic plants had taken him to a terrifying place he never wanted to visit again. Just thinking about it made his missing finger ache and gorge rise in his throat. He could throw the whole goddamned cup in Jeremy’s face. But what good would it do? They’d just hold him down and pour the stuff into him. It was best to get this charade over with as quickly as possible. He took the cup. Drank a sip.

  “More,” Jeremy said.

  It was water, thankfully. Plain and cold. He took a bigger sip, then a swallow.

  Jeremy took the cup back and held it high above his head. “As the physical water transformeth into the blood of the man, so may the spiritual water become the blood of the true initiate.”

  “Konx Om Pax,” the assembly echoed. Jeremy whispered an inaudible prayer then extended the cup again.

  “Drink, candidate.”

  Ray took it to his lips and sipped. Jeremy’s eyes followed him.

  It wasn’t water. It was wine. He sipped again. Unmistakably red wine.

  Jeremy’s eyes were on fire. Was this some kind of magic trick?

  Jeremy took the cup back and placed it on the altar. “Ray Simon, child of the earth, son of darkness, seed of light, now thou must enter the womb of the Great Mother in order to be born anew.” He held his hand, fingers outstretched. “Take off your robe.”

  Ray glared. “Seriously?”

  “Do it,” Claire said.

  He pulled the flimsy robe over his head. His face reddened. This was cheap.

  Jeremy took the robe and handed it to Claire. “Now, candidate, return to the belly of the Great Mother.” He gestured toward the carved stone throne.

  Ray stepped toward the throne. The seat was curved, almost bowl shaped. He sat, his flesh prickling against the cold stone. He covered his nakedness the best he could, humiliated.

  Jeremy held his hands aloft as if in a benediction. “In the long night before existence, in the formless chaos and darkness of unbeing, the Great Void gives birth to the seed of the becoming soul.”

  “In darkness, we are nothing,” they chanted. “From darkness, we are born.”

  “Seek the light,” Jeremy said, and quickly turned away. The two tylers stepped to his side, their swords drawn and pointing at Ray.

  Ray gasped. “Wait. What—what the fuck?”

  First Jeremy, then Claire, and then one by one the Council members exited. The tylers backed away last, and slammed the door as Ray hurled himself against it.

  He pounded the door and cursed until he was hoarse.

  He was alone, underground, in utter darkness.

  —

  In the absolute absence of light time ceases to exist. At first, he tried to remain stoic. It’s just part of their initiation, he told himself. Each of the Council members, and probably all of the adults at Eleusis, had gone through this initiation. They’d been locked in this pitch-black cave, too, and they were all very much alive. This was like stupid college hazing, only without the beer bongs and puking, and all he needed to do was sit it out. Practice some of the meditations and work on staying calm. They’d be back in an hour or two. It would be cruel to leave him here for longer than that.

  Seek the light was the last thing Jeremy said. Thinking maybe it was part of the game, he left the throne and crawled across the floor. His hands found the cup on the altar. It smelled of wine, though there was only a trace of liquid at the bottom. He licked his finger. A cheap magic trick, water into wine; he would have expected better from the Brotherhood.

  The lack of spatial cues turned the room into a gaping, endless void. Sounds magnified: blood swishing rhythmically in his ears, his breath echoing loudly in the emptiness. But soon there were other sounds, too. Someone whispering. A conversation of whispers. Slitherings, squeakings, and clicks. Now his eyes and ears were hallucinating. Little balls of light zipped around the room and patterns coalesced and danced in the air.

  He remembered reading about people in sensory deprivation tanks—how they started hallucinating. The lack of stimulus made your brain crave pictures, sounds, colors, so it responded by making stuff up.

  He tasted the wine on his breath then had to force himself not to retch. So it was this again? Drugged with weird psychedelics, like when Lily and Crawford dosed him in Blackwater with their pharmaceutical cocktail, and Sabina with her paloma blood mixed with dirt and mushrooms and God knew what else? He instinctively tucked his maimed hand under his right arm.

  Then he felt the snake.

  He swatted at his leg. Nothing there. But it had felt just like a snake brushing against his calf.

  He crawled back in what he hoped was the direction of the throne. Something else slithered against his other leg. Christ! They let snakes into the room. His head banged against the rock altar. So the throne had to be…there? Or maybe over there?

  His hand touched something and it moved. He screamed. Backed away. If he ever saw Jeremy again he was going to drive his fist into his fac
e. Repeatedly. He scrambled and then found himself against the wall of the cave. Shit. He stood, holding his hands out in front of him, waving in the empty air. If he moved directly away from the wall he should reach the center, right?

  Finally he felt the throne. Crawled into it, lifting his feet from the floor. He was definitely drugged. Flashes, tracings of lines like the veins in a leaf, curlicues of light. He closed his eyes but it made no difference—the visions didn’t stop.

  “Goddammit, Jeremy, let me out of here!” he screamed. His voice reverberated in the stone chamber.

  Calm down. Breathe. He pulled himself into a fetal position, wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his face against his knees.

  Then he heard the whisperings again. Queer voices in a language that made no sense.

  It’s just the drugs. Just a hallucination. Or maybe sounds pumped through hidden speakers. He pressed his palms tightly against his ears until all he could hear was his heartbeat. If the point of this was to drive him insane, it was working.

  More snakes. All over him now, entwining around his legs, his arms, his neck. He slapped and pulled and grabbed. Nothing. They weren’t real, but somehow they were real enough that he couldn’t stop grasping for them.

  And then he remembered something Sister Diana had taught him. “Banish the demons of the mind,” she’d said, “with the pentagram and the Command to Depart.” She’d shown Ray how to trace the five-pointed star, starting and finishing at the lower left point. It had seemed silly at the time, but he’d been forced to practice it, over and over, until the instructor had smiled and told him he’d gotten it right.

  One of the serpents hissed in his ear and he screamed.

  He traced the pentagram. He was supposed to visualize it, glowing white, which he had never really been able to do, but in this impenetrable darkness he could almost see the star hanging in the blackness like neon. “Depart, phantoms of the mind!” he shouted as he finished the glowing star at the point of its origination.

  And then it stopped, as if his tormenters never existed. His skin itched furiously, but the snakes were gone. Damn. Why hadn’t he thought of that hours ago? He realized he’d been hyperventilating, his heart beating dangerously fast. What else had she taught him? It came back instantly—the Breath of the Unborn. “Bring the mind to the state of the fetus. In the primal darkness before birth, where consciousness only exists as an unwatered seed in the black soil of the Great Mother.”

  In the stone throne, his legs pulled against his chest, Ray truly felt like a fetus. He closed his lips, pressed his tongue against the dry roof of his mouth, and inhaled slowly through his nose. Counting—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

  It was working.

  Held his breath for seven beats. Exhaled—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

  Time slowed. Or it stretched. He was sinking into blackness, his breathing almost imperceptible. The Void, Sister Diana had called it, the self that had existed before life began. An emptiness, a quietness, outside of time. He felt himself sinking as he simultaneously grew and expanded until there was nothing left of himself. Ray was no more. Thoughts, feelings, words, fear—all gone. It was as if he no longer existed.

  “Initiate.”

  A real voice, a woman’s voice. It yanked him out of the Void so quickly he felt nauseated. “Who is it?” he asked. A vague form stood before him. The shape of a woman, but little more than wavering, luminous smoke. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The shape moved toward him. Slowly, drifting, like a cloud pushed by a slight breeze. He thought he could see a face in it, but it was blurry and indistinct, like an out-of-focus old-time photograph. He closed his eyes tightly. Another hallucination, like the snakes. But she was there again when he opened them, more solid now. A woman made out of little dustlike motes of light.

  “The time approaches,” she said. The voice was somehow inside his head but crystal clear. “Our power is fading, and the Unknowable Ones will once again walk in your world. The gates are opening.”

  She was strangely beautiful, whatever she was.

  “Trust that we will be with you,” she said. And behind her, for just a moment, Ray saw dozens of wispy beings. Male and female, arrayed around the cavern, all staring intently upon him. Just as quickly they faded. “But yours is a lonely path, with much pain and sorrow and uncertainty ahead.” She opened her arms wider and a scene appeared, like a fuzzy TV picture, only in three dimensions and so real he startled.

  The scenes washed over him like successive waves.

  Ellen, in a small, bare room, holding another woman in her arms, both of them weeping. And then William, lying atop a bunk bed, eyes rolled back in his head as if dreaming. But then he sits up, opens his eyes, and stares directly at Ray.

  Please come soon, he says. She’s going to kill us.

  “William,” Ray whispered. But the boy was gone.

  The feminine presence moved closer. “Traveler among the worlds, take heed: The great will fall, the innocent will be called into death, and things that have not tasted the light of the sun will crawl forth from the darkness to bring despair and destruction.” Her form brightened, and Ray shielded his eyes with his maimed hand. The hair on his head and his arms was standing straight up, as if she were made of electricity. Her hand stretched out toward his face.

  “Do not despair, for we leave you with a gift.” Her finger touched him between his eyes. An explosion of burning light filled his head, along with the sound of a thousand gongs. Images flashed so quickly he couldn’t make sense of them—snowy mountains, a circle of children, blood-splattered walls, buildings exploding and people on fire, a starry sky swarming with multicolored lights. Ellen’s face above him, upside down, cradling his head, tears dropping from her eyes onto his face.

  “Tell no one,” the entity whispered. “These signs are for you alone.”

  And then she was gone.

  —

  The light from the opened door was like knives in his eyes. Ray shielded his face. How long had it been? He’d been lost in sleep, dreaming about William and Ellen. They were somewhere on a beach, far away, as if none of this nightmare had ever happened.

  “Welcome, brother.” It was Jeremy. “Thou hast persevered through the dark night. Come forth from the abyss, from the silence of the primal sleep into thy soul’s birthright: the golden light of the new day.”

  Claire stepped forward with a robe. She took Ray’s hand and helped him to his feet. It hurt to stand. Claire kissed him lightly on his forehead and one of the tylers helped him into the robe. Its warmth was heavenly, and the fabric was soft and delicate. Tears ran from Ray’s eyes. Jeremy stepped forward with a cup of water. “Drink, brother,” he said.

  Ray’s throat was bone dry. But when he swallowed it was the best water he’d ever tasted. He took the cup and drank deeply.

  “Blessed is the water of life,” Jeremy said.

  “So mote it be,” the others answered. And then they led Ray, weeping and stumbling, up the stairs.

  Chapter 2

  William lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. He’d fallen asleep.

  “Hey, Rip Van Stinkle.”

  It was Victoria. Short, bobbed dark brown hair, big eyes, and spitting mean. She leaned away to make sure the teacher was still occupied, then turned back to William.

  “Wake up, Little Willy. You drooled all over your desk.”

  The boy at the desk behind her giggled—Isaac, the only black kid in the class. Isaac laughed no matter what Victoria said. “Little Willy,” he echoed.

  William wiped his lip and used his sleeve to mop up the tiny, bubbly puddle on his desk. He’d been dreaming, something about his old school in Blackwater. A school that seemed so long ago and far away it could have been a dream. “Leave me alone,” he whispered.

  Victoria crossed her eyes and stuck out her upper teeth. “Weave me awone. I’m sweepy.”

  Isaac snorted and buried his face in his hands.

  Wi
lliam wiped at the corners of his eyes. His head hurt. This class—Ms. Fortune’s—was the most boring, and he almost always fell asleep. It was all about some weird kind of geometry and mathematics that William couldn’t make sense of. Victoria picked right up on it, but to him it was just squiggles and nonsense numbers.

  Victoria stared. “Do you think I’m mean to you, Little Willy?”

  William glared. “I hate you.”

  Victoria rolled her eyes. “I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone. I actually love you. Because everyone loves…” She paused. “Little Willy.”

  This time Isaac lost it.

  “Class!”

  Ms. Fortune had turned toward them. Fat Ms. Fortune, in her long black dress with flakes of dandruff on her shoulders. Her breasts were so enormous they sometimes smeared what she was writing on the whiteboard. “Time’s up. Pass up your papers, please.” Victoria smiled at the teacher and flipped her hair behind her ears. She held her paper proudly, showing William all her neatly inked answers—all of them right, of course—and passed it forward.

  William stared at his paper. He’d drawn a battle scene before drifting off—giant robots shooting lasers at a tentacled monster. He hadn’t even bothered trying to do the equations. What the heck was non-Euclidean sigil geometry anyway? It wasn’t just hard, it was impossible. But pretty much everything had gotten harder since he’d been brought to this place—how long ago was it? Three months? Five?

  At first he’d simply refused to participate in anything—classes, playtime, computer games, even talking to the other kids. But after two days of self-imposed isolation he realized he couldn’t keep it up. The teachers were all weird, but the kids were pretty normal. Well, normal like he was normal—all of them super-smart in different ways, kids who would have been in gifted classes in any normal school in the normal world. Most would have been picked on by the kids who weren’t so bright. They were overly polite and reserved, with one notable exception.

  William passed his paper forward and pressed his fists against his forehead.

  Dr. Regardie, who ran the school, told him he would be able to talk to his mom again. Soon, too, if he did the classwork and meditations, played the required computer games, and got with the program. When William first arrived, Dr. Regardie had let him talk to his mom on the phone. She had said she was okay, that everything was fine, that he should be a good boy and do what was asked of him. But he could tell she wasn’t okay. She was lying the best she could, but she was his mom, and he knew. But at least she was alive. That was something.