The Unseen

by Bryan, JL

  “I marked one story with a ribbon,” Ibis said. “You can look at it later. Need a ride to work?”

  “No, wait,” Cassidy said. “I have to see what the big mystery is.”

  “It can wait.” Ibis folded his arms, looking nervous. “We should get going.”

  “It’s like you don’t want me to look.” Cassidy unzipped the plastic and gently removed the book. It felt dry and fragile. She eased open the cover with one fingertip.

  The yellow pages felt like they would crumble at her touch. Many pages were missing, but the book seemed to be a collection of Irish lore. The first letter of each story was a fancy gold and green Gaelic-style drop cap, and each story ended with a colorful illustration, though these tended to be darker than she expected from a children’s book—a huge wolf breaking down a farmhouse door, a pale wraith of a woman screaming by a gravestone.

  Cassidy very carefully turned to the page marked with the long red ribbon. A single word jutted out at her from the title. She gaped up at Ibis’s face, feeling a ball of icy fear form in her stomach. His smile was fading at Cassidy’s shocked expression.

  Cassidy kept her eyes on him as she edged back toward her shelves, toward the box with the X-Acto knives. She could grab one in each hand if she needed them.

  “Something upset you?” he asked, but he didn’t seem surprised.

  “You marked a story called ‘The Enchantress of Darmoughan.’”

  “Yes,” Ibis said.

  “That’s the village where my parents are from.”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t just say ‘yes’! I never told you the name of the town. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to anybody. Are you stalking me?” Cassidy’s hand moved to the lip of the box, closer to the knife.

  “I suppose I am,” Ibis said.

  Cassidy reached into the box and closed her hand around the slim metal shaft of the sharp-tipped X-Acto.

  “Since when? The hospital?” Cassidy asked. “How did you hear about Darmoughan? Did you talk to my mom? Or my brother?”

  “I first read about the witch of Darmoughan in a manuscript from 1512. It was the unpublished work of an English priest who attempted to collect stories of witchcraft, demons, and devil worship from around the British Isles. All of his accounts involved a lot of sex and Satan. The fairy-tale book is probably more accurate.”

  “You didn’t answer my question at all,” Cassidy said. “Why did you mark this story for me?”

  “It seems like a good place to begin. Your mother must have taught you nothing.”

  “Excuse me?” Cassidy was scared and confused already. It was not a good time for him to start insulting her mom. She felt instantly defensive. “What are you talking about?”

  “If she had, you wouldn’t have consented to have that steel installed in your leg. The witch of Darmoughan doesn’t need crude hardware to heal her own broken bone, does she?” Ibis pointed to the signs on her leg. “You could have healed yourself.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Tell me where you found out about my parents’ village.”

  “What do you know about this group?” Ibis reached into his bag and brought out a color pamphlet. The cover read Are You the Messiah?

  “Oh, not you, too,” Cassidy said. “You’re one of them?”

  “No, I’m keeping watch on them,” Ibis said. “They’ve invested in a large new temple complex not far from here, a compound with offices, apartments, underground rooms, a sanctuary. I want to know why.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “This cult is more dangerous than they look.”

  “That’s not saying much,” Cassidy replied, thinking of the adolescent boys in their suits and ties handing out leaflets.

  “When they initiate a new disciple, that person agrees to be possessed by a minor dark energy personality essence.”

  “Which is...?”

  “A demon,” Ibis said. “The disciple gains a feeling of immense power. The demon gains the ability to act on the earth and experience the pleasures of the flesh. This cult, the Church of First Light, is a front for a host of demons gathering up bodies to inhabit.”

  “Of course,” Cassidy said. “That makes so much sense.”

  “It does?” Ibis looked relieved.

  “No. Look, I’m trying to subtract craziness from my life, not add it.” Cassidy started for the door. This was too much, too crazy. The part of her that wanted to understand was suddenly driven down by a surge of fear and confusion. She didn’t want to deal with it. The more she learned, the more insane it all became, and she was suddenly eager to escape from all the strangeness. “I need to get to work.”

  “I haven’t told you the most important thing yet.”

  “Tell me on the way out.” Cassidy opened her door and stepped out onto the wide landing. She flipped off the lights in her room to make the point a little stronger. She really did need to get to work, but she also no longer found it so appealing to be alone in her room with Ibis.

  Stray’s band played at deafening volume, so Ibis didn’t speak until they were out on the front porch.

  “At the center of the cult is an archdemon named Nibhaz,” he said.

  Cassidy jumped a little, recognizing the name, but she let Ibis keep talking.

  “He was worshiped as a god in Assyria a few thousand years ago. He wants a sturdy human vessel for himself, but his power destroys most bodies he tries to possess. He’s looking for something extra. The witches of Darmoughan are known to be very powerful...or they once were, generations ago. This is why I wanted a closer look at you. He might want you, or your brother, since Nibhaz is a male entity with no known proclivities for cross-dressing.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about,” Cassidy said. She paused at the end of the driveway, waiting for Ibis to get into his rental car. “I’m not going to join any stupid cult.”

  “But your brother—”

  “Stay the hell away from my brother,” Cassidy interrupted him. “And my mom. And me, too. I don’t need any of this in my life.”

  “You may not have a choice,” Ibis said. “That’s why you must prepare yourself.”

  “Who are you, really?” Cassidy asked. “Are you even a physical therapist?”

  “I’m afraid not, though I do have some training as a physician,” he said. “I created a false identity for a day. I stole your file from the real therapist at Grady so she wouldn’t know to visit you. Don’t worry, my advice is sound—I read up on it first.”

  “You read up on it,” she snorted. “What are you, really? Just a random crazed stalker?”

  “I’m a librarian,” Ibis said. “And a magician.”

  Cassidy gaped at him for a minute.

  “A librarian and a magician. What else?” she asked. “You work as a clown for kids’ birthday parties, too?”

  “Of course not. What child would want a clown at his birthday party?”

  “You’re funny. I don’t know what you’re doing, but leave my family out of it, okay? Go deal with your demons somewhere else.” Cassidy moved as quickly as she could down the sidewalk, but her leg was still sore and weak, though it wasn’t throbbing or aching anymore.

  “Let me give you a ride to work,” Ibis offered.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Should I call you later?” Ibis asked. “You could be in danger.”

  “You’re creeping me out,” Cassidy said. “Don’t call me.”

  She kept walking and didn’t look back. Ibis pulled out of her driveway several seconds later and left in the opposite direction.

  Cassidy was shaking. She didn’t need people telling her that her hallucinations and dreams were real. She didn’t need to hang out with crazy people obsessed with weird cults. She just needed to get back to her normal life and put bad dreams behind her.

  Cassidy was almost to work before she noticed she’d left her crutches at home.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  P
eyton waited in the parking lot outside the labyrinthine church complex, and then he waited and waited some more, leaning on Reese’s big black SUV and wishing she would hurry up.

  Reese had sent him outside by himself, telling him that her boss needed her help “for a few minutes.” Those minutes had stretched out into almost an hour. Peyton had watched the young professional types stroll out and drive away in their Porsches. Few cars remained now, and he had nothing to do—his phone wasn’t getting a signal, which made no sense in the middle of such a densely populated area.

  When Reese finally emerged from a door in a four-story side building, she gave Peyton a drowsy smile and a wave as she approached him.

  “That took forever,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.” She hugged him, and he couldn’t help noticing that her hair was a little tangled, her lipstick just a little smudged, her sun-yellow dress slightly askew. She radiated a strange, musky scent.

  “What were you doing in there?” Peyton asked.

  “Just work stuff.” She climbed into the driver’s seat, and Peyton circled around and climbed in with her.

  “What kind of work stuff?” he asked.

  “I can’t say.” She drove them toward the front gate.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s secret.” She chewed her lip nervously.

  “A very personal secret?”

  “A church secret.” Reese bounced excitedly in her seat, like a child bursting with news she couldn’t hold in. “Okay, if I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone else.”

  “Sure.”

  “The prophet is here.”

  “That old guy, your boss? Is he the prophet you keep talking about?” Peyton asked.

  Reese laughed. “No, he’s just the regional director of the church, handles finances and stuff. He used to be a big real estate developer, but he’s retired now to focus on the church. You didn’t meet the prophet today. Nobody know he’s in town. It’s a big secret. Our prophet, Eli Bernham, has come all the way from California to see the new seat of the Southeastern Domain. If we get you ready in time, Peyton, you could be initiated by the prophet himself! Isn’t that amazing? You’re so lucky!”

  “I guess,” Peyton said. “Who is this guy, again?”

  “You have so much to learn! We’d better start today.”

  When they reached Peyton’s loft, Reese opened her suitcase, brought out a slim hardcover book, and sat beside him on the couch. Bound in fake plastic black leather, the book had no text or other markings on the outside except for small golden spirals on the front cover and the spine.

  “This is The Book of First Light,” Reese said. “The prophet wrote it for the disciples. It explains everything about life, everything we need to know.”

  “Everything you need to know, all compressed into one book,” Peyton said. “Sounds like a pretty standard religion.”

  “I want to go through it with you.” Reese opened the book. It had no title page, copyright information, or other front matter. The first page was marked FOREWORD.

  “A holy book with a foreword,” Peyton said. “That’s different.”

  “Let’s read it together. Please?” Reese looked at him with begging eyes.

  Peyton hoped she didn’t mean the whole book, though it didn’t look terribly long, probably less than a hundred pages. He began to read it out loud, trying not to take a mocking tone.

  “‘The greatest number of men are ignorant cattle, blindly stumbling to slaughter.’ Hey, that’s a pretty good line. I think it swipes something from Thoreau, though.”

  “Keep going.” Reese leaned close to him, and he could feel her breast on his upper arm, caged inside a stiff bra.

  “‘A much smaller number are not blind, but have one eye open, and see the life of emptiness, suffering, and death around them. They see it but are helpless to change their lives. They are only awake enough to know they are trapped.’

  “‘The smallest number, only a chosen few, walk with both eyes open. They know the emptiness and horror of life, but they wield the power to change it for themselves. These are the initiated. These are the true disciples.’ Does that mean you, Reese?”

  “Yes,” Reese said. “And you, too, very soon.” She cuddled closer, running her fingertips up and down his arm, turning him on. “Keep reading.”

  Peyton continued. The introduction essentially dared people to keep reading if they wanted to “discover the truth hidden in the darkness.” The text at the end identified the writer as Eli Bernham, King City, California, 1975.

  A second introduction, written by the same person but dated the current year, told how the church had been founded in California in 1975, and “grown very slowly, because we are very selective about our disciples.” The alleged prophet Bernham wrote that “only now are we prepared to make ourselves known to more of the world, as we search for the messiah and prepare ourselves in discipleship until the messiah’s identity is revealed. We know only that the messiah has been born, and that the messiah is not yet aware of his (or her) coming role in history.”

  Reese had Peyton read on through the first chapter, which purported to be a kind of history of the universe. Creation, it claimed, was left in the hands of celestial caretakers, sometimes called gods or angels.

  The rise of intelligent life on Earth divided the caretakers into two factions, those who wanted to leave humanity to its own devices like wild animals, and those who wanted to reach out and teach them, helping the human race to advance.

  The leaders of the two factions, Uriel and Lucifer, agreed to take the disagreement to the original (apparently nameless) creator for a clear ruling on the matter. However, the creator could not be found, “having moved onward into realms unknown.”

  Lucifer and his angels began contacting humans of particular talent and ability, teaching “useful arts” that included “tool-making, language, writing, science, and divination and other forms of magic.”

  Uriel and his host pushed back, trying to “drive humanity back into animal blindness.” Human history had been shaped by the war between these forces, the book claimed.

  “Satan comes off as the good guy here,” Peyton commented.

  “We prefer to call him by his true name, Lucifer, the Bringer of Light, the Morning Star,” Reese said, leaning her head on Peyton’s shoulder.

  “So...you’re devil worshipers?”

  “He is no devil,” Reese said quietly. “I know devils.”

  “You know better than I do.” Peyton continued on, not sure he was buying the lore as actual truth, but determined to learn all he could. Whenever his concentration began to wander, he simply looked at the beautiful drop of endless darkness inside Reese’s black opal. He would feel a delicious, bracing chill of fear that spurred him to keep going, to try and penetrate the mysteries of the unseen world that had been hidden from him all his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “I’m Dan,” the kid said. He was probably twenty years old, not much younger than her, but Cassidy instantly thought of him as a kid. He was freckle-faced, a little shy, his accent pegging him as a mountain kid who’d come down from the Appalachians to try life in the big city. “Your friend Barb sent me over here. I’m the new barback.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Cassidy sat behind the counter at Neolithic, feeling relieved to be at work and away from the insane or useless guys she’d been dating. Unfortunately, her hallucinations were in full force, since she’d neglected to take a pill or a strong drink before work.

  “Just started this week,” Dan said. “Barb says you’re a real good tattooer.”

  “Some days. What can I draw on you, Dan?”

  “Well, this might sound weird to you, but when I was a kid, I got bit by this spider. A brown recluse, right in my closet. Thing just about killed me. I coulda lost my right arm. I still think about it every time I walk in a dark space, or even when I open a door...”

  “So you want a brown recluse tattoo.”

  “Yeah. Righ
t here, where it got me.” He touched the inside of his forearm, near the crook of his elbow, where two tiny, faded scars dented his skin.

  “What kind of style do you want?”

  “I don’t know tattoo styles, sorry.”

  “I mean, do you want it realistic, or cartoony, or a horror-movie evil spider—”

  “Just like a real one.”

  “I can do that.” Cassidy did an image search for a brown recluse on her phone. She sketched one quickly but thoroughly, taking special care with the violin shape on its back and the creepy little hairs on its legs. It took about two minutes.

  “Damn, you can do that in a tattoo?” he gaped, obviously impressed.

  “The tattoo will be in color. Just shades of brown. Ready?”

  “We can do it right now?”

  “As long as you have cash or a credit card.”

  Cassidy focused on the little spider for three hours. The kid did not complain a bit about the needles rapidly jamming brown ink into his skin.

  Dan, like most people she saw, had his own transparent parasites around him. They resembled malformed spiders themselves, as though they’d take the shape of his fear by feeding on it. As Cassidy inked the lifelike brown recluse inside Dan’s arm, the little spiders seemed to jitter and blink in and out of focus, something she’d never seen before.

  At eleven p.m, Cassidy finally left work, walked right down the street to the Five Fingers Tavern, and ordered a tall whiskey from Barb. It was Sunday night, which meant the crowd was small. The place would close at midnight.

  “How was your semi-date with hot physical therapist guy?” Barb asked as she poured.

  “It started out promising, then seemed really great, but then it all fell apart.”

  “Hey, the exact story of our lives.” Barb gave a thin smile and watched Cassidy drink. “You need solid comfort food. I’m taking you for late-night hamburgers when I get off.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I do. I’ve been craving them for at least two hours. In fact, I bet I can get out now, it’s dead in here. Let me check.” Barb ducked into the back.