by Sandy DeLuca
I push open the door to the kitchen. It’s dark but for a light above the sink. It smells of floor wax and spices. Davika is leaning against the pantry. Pots and pans hang behind glass doors behind her. She looks as though she’s waiting for me. There’s a tattered suitcase by her feet.
“Couldn’t sleep?” She asks me.
“Just restless,” I tell her.
“My time here is done.” She bends and picks up the suitcase.
She moves to the door
“Where are you going?”
She doesn’t answer my question. “When you’re born there’s a pattern set down. Some people call it fate. Don’t mean you can’t change it. You don’t have to go into darkness.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Everyone is born with angels around them. Some got two. Others got three or four. Angels can’t interfere unless a person asks for help. You going to ask for help?”
She waits a moment and then sighs. Sadness is etched across her face. A beam of light encircles the old woman as she backs away, turns and opens the door. The smell of night, damp air and oak tumble inside. She speaks one last time. “Just ask when the darkness comes.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve always done everything myself.”
She walks into the yard. Gazes up at the sky and then seems to vanish as the moon is swallowed by a dark cloud.
What am I doing? This is my chance. I could get away now. The door is closing slowly. I rush to it. I grab the knob. Bolted shut. How can this be?
I’m alone.
I hear Davika’s voice inside my head.
“You don’t have to go into darkness.”
Now I hear an engine revving outside. I feel sorrow because it reminds me of Ken. I think of a strange old lady pouring a potion around this house. Dancing in the snow. Tossing salt into boiling water. I weep because I’ll never see Davika again. And I wonder if she was ever really here at all.
* * *
I make my way back to my room. Mr. Greely is gone. The chair he sat on is broken, legs splintered and scattered. There are dark shadows moving over the threshold. Shapeless things with gaping mouths.
I clutch my stomach as pain rips through me. Sweat drenches me, yet I feel cold air. I see red eyes pierce darkness and I hear deep guttural growls. I crouch down and then lay on my side.
Now Irene, Marsha and Maureen stand over me. They don’t look human. Bones poke through dry, scaly flesh. White hair hangs down their backs. I know them. The old women from a darkened room.
I feel blood pour down my thighs.
Others are here now. Linda. Marcy. Lacey. Flora.
An engine roars and I see a truck looming down a dark highway. The driver lights a cigarette. Smoke billows, surrounds me and fills my lungs. Brakes squeal and then come to a stop. The engine dies. A door opens and closes. Footsteps sound on gravel.
A familiar scent fills my nostrils. One of sex mingled with fresh sweat. It dissipates. The grandfather clock ticks. Fire erupts before me. A figure floats towards me. The old women step aside and ghosts float away. The being creeps closer and I cry as water bursts from between my legs.
I’m going to die. I should have run, but there were always locks and bolts to stop me.
Someone please help me before they take my child. I squeeze my eyes shut and envision an image my father once prayed to. I see flickering candles. I smell the dampness and mothballs of that attic where he conjured things—beautiful and pure—terrifying and vile.
“I don’t care what the price is. Just save us,” I tell the God face before me. It makes a cackling sound and fire licks my feet. He’s carrying me away now and I don’t care because he’ll set me free.
* * *
“There, there, pretty, girl. Told you I’d be back.”
My stomach hurts. Blood is still trickling down my legs.
I see the moon. I feel cold air on my face. I fear the worse. “You can’t take my baby.”
“It’s my baby too, Meg.” Ken is holding me, guiding me towards his truck. “Come on.”
“It hurts so bad. I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die. You’re in labor. I’ll take care of it. It’ll be ok.”
“The hospital. How far?”
“Don’t know how far,” he says as he lifts me and helps me inside his truck. It’s warm in here. The radio is playing. Do You Believe In Magic? I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve heard music.
“Hold tight, Meg,” Ken tells me.
And I drift away as he strikes a match. I smell tobacco and diesel fuel. I wonder if I’m dreaming again. I wonder if I died.
The pain ebbs and then comes back with fury.
“How far is the hospital?” I ask again.
Ken doesn’t answer. He just grabs my hand. His skin is rough, but his touch comforts me. We drive for a long time; down dark roads, past ancient graveyards. We finally stop on a hill. A city glimmers below.
Ken shuts off the engine. He exits the truck and for a moment I fear he’s left me again. But my door opens. Now he’s carrying me. Helping me inside the trailer. He lays me down on his magic love blanket.
“I missed you. I’m so sorry I left you alone.” He bends over me.
“What are you?”
“Your true love. Doesn’t every girl want true love?”
I remember wishes made and darkness conjured. I remember wanting Ken so bad nothing else mattered. I created a child with him. I created this moment. I am damned. So be it.
The pain is excruciating. So bad that what I should fear seems insignificant. I close my eyes. I go to a place where little babies are nestled in flower-filled fields and angels cradle them, but something evil is coming for them and I’m part of it.
* * *
I awaken to a baby crying. The sun hasn’t come up yet. I know I will never see it again and I am bound to eternal darkness.
Ken is holding the baby. She’s beautiful. Tiny hands move as though conducting a magical symphony. Rosebud lips yawn and eyes sparkle. Something ancient and wise glimmers in those eyes.
“Don’t take her,” I plead with him again.
He smiles. “I don’t intend to. She’ll grow up just fine. Remember I told you if I found the right one I’d take her on the road with me? You, me and our little girl.”
The drummer is beating his drum.
“Come on now,” Ken tells me. He reaches for the army jacket, still hanging on its hook. He wraps it around the baby. Then he nestles her in my arms. She’s warm. Her breathe is soft and her tiny heart flutters when I lean down to kiss her cheek.
Ken rests his arm on my shoulder. He guides me out of the trailer and into the night. There’s a chill in the air, but it feels good on my skin.
I climb into my seat and we move further into the dark. My daughter is sucking at my breast.
I never wanted to settle for just anybody, never wanted to be like my sisters. I wanted Ken to come back. I wanted to be with him no matter what people said or what dark deals I had to make to have him.
“Her name is Lailah,” I tell him, remembering something I’d learned from a musty book in a haunted library. “After the angel who watches over us from conception to birth.”
“Good name,” he says.
I cradle Lailah in the crook of my right arm and I slip my left hand in Ken’s. Now we travel over the boundary of sanity and into a place where fire burns flesh from bone. To where a drummer beats his fists in time with each drop of blood—with each slice of the knife. I hear cries coming from Ken’s trailer.
Make them stop, I tell myself and then the drummer beats his fists. The cries are drowned out by mystic music and the road to Hell looms before us.
I accept my fate.
RESEARCH BOOKS
A TREATSIE ON ANGEL MAGIC, Edited by Adam McLean
ANGELS A to Z, James R. Lewis & Evelyn Dorothy Oliver
ANGELS, Companions In Magick, Silver RavenWolf
ANGELS, The Lifting
Of The Veil, Thomas Keller & Deborah S. Taylor
ENOCHIAN VISION MAGICK, Lon Milo DuQuette
METATRON, Rose Vanden Eyden
PARADISE LOST, John Milton
PEOPLE MAGAZINE, September 18th, 2006, Vol. 66 No. 12
THE COMPLETE ENOCHIAN DICTIONARY, Donald C. Laycock
THE GRIMOIRE OF ARMADEL, S. L. MacGregor Mathers
SUMMONING SPIRITS, Konstantinos
1968: THE YEAR THAT ROCKED THE WORLD, Mark Kurlansky
“TAKIN’ IT TO THE STREETS”: A SIXTIES READER, Alexander Bloom, Wini Breines
THE 60’S (20TH CENTURY POP CULTURE), Dan Epstein
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sandy DeLuca is the author of five novels: Settling In Nazareth, Descent, Manhattan Grimoire, From Ashes, and Requiem For The Dead. She penned the Chant For Inner Strength and the Herbal Invocation / Spell, under the pseudonym, Autumn Raindancer, for Raven Silverwolf’s famous Magick book, To Stir A Magick Cauldron. She was a finalist for the Bram Stoker For Poetry award for the year 2000 with Burial Plots In Sagittarius. Her short stories (and poetry) have appeared in collections such as In Delirium II, Scary Halloween Tales, Divas Of Darkness and an assortment of small press venues over the last decade.
Her art has found homes in various places throughout the world. At present she is working on another novel. She continues to paint and experiment as well.
For more information check out her website:www.sandydeluca-artist-author.com
Feedback, comments and questions welcome at: [email protected].
Table of Contents
DARKNESS CONJURED
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Research Books
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
