by James Swain
He retrieved his cell phone from the night table. He’d sent Liza several text messages, and apologized in every conceivable way he knew how. Still no response.
A clap of thunder shook the walls. He threw on a bathrobe, and went to the window which looked out on the courtyard. Some of the best séances he’d ever conducted had occurred during bad storms, and he’d assumed it had something to do with the air being filled with electricity. Now, he found himself not caring about the spirits, or anything associated with them. He just wanted her back.
He thought about her request. Stop doing these crazy séances, and come back to the real world. Up until two days ago, he would have said yes; his love for her was that great. Up until two days ago, he would have been able to walk away from it. But now he couldn’t. The spirit world had taken over, and he couldn’t have run away from it if his life depended upon it. But Liza deserved better than what he’d given her. She’d committed herself to him, and he’d repaid her by keeping her in the dark about who he was. There was a name for what he’d done. It was called being a shit.
His cell phone was vibrating. His heartbeat quickened as he grabbed it off the night table. Liza had sent him a text message.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
He returned to the window, and read her message by the light of the storm.
P,
I’m sorry to run out on you, but you gave me no choice. You’re scaring me. I don’t know this person you’ve become.
Do you?
L
It was a good question. He’d done things in the past couple of days that he would never have dreamed of doing before, and the answer was as obvious as it was frightening.
No, he didn’t.
He didn’t know this person at all. This person had powers and feelings that were brand new to him. If he wanted to get back together with Liza, he needed to find out who this person was. For her sake, and for his own.
But how? He supposed it had to start with knowing who his parents were. The family tree, as it were. Then he might understand himself a little better.
He went into the bathroom. Reaching beneath his bathroom sink, he removed the mysterious DVD that he’d taken from the bookshelf in Lester Rowe’s apartment. Maybe the DVD had the answers he was looking for, or could point him in the right direction.
His bedroom had a large entertainment unit built into the wall. Slipping the DVD into the player, he pulled up a chair, and sat a foot away from the giant screen. He had no films of his parents, just scrapbooks filled with aging photographs, and the ghostly images he carried in his head. He wondered what it would be like to see them again.
Moments later, he had his answer.
His mother’s lovely face filled the screen. Her eyes were expressive, and her smile could light up a room. She said hello to the camera.
“Hey,” he whispered back.
The camera pulled back. His mother was dressed as if going to the theater, and wore a strapless black evening gown and a string of white pearls. She sat at a table covered in black cloth with occult symbols painted on the fabric. Symbols were an important part of the spirit world, and every psychic worth his salt knew what they represented. The symbols on the cloth were new to him, and appeared to be a cross between a unicursal hexagram used to summon the spirits, and a common pentagram.
The camera pulled back even farther. His father sat to his mother’s right at the table. The quintessential college professor, he favored rumpled sports jackets and never combed his hair. Now he wore a tailored suit, a white shirt with a button-down collar, and a tie with a gold stickpin. His goatee was neatly trimmed, and the part in his hair was as straight as an arrow.
They both looked like royalty. He hit pause with the remote, and spent a long moment staring at them. His eyes grew moist. It was an image that he would forever savor.
He hit play, and the film resumed. Out of the shadows appeared four other people, who took their places at the table. Two men, two women, all dressed in formal attire. It was Lester Rowe, Milly, Reggie Brown, and Madame Marie, all looking twenty years younger.
On the screen, his mother said, “Let’s begin.”
The other participants nodded agreement.
His father struck a match, and lit three white candles in the table’s center. The lights in the dining room were dimmed. Everyone at the table joined hands.
His mother began to chant. She was soft-spoken, and he strained to pick up the words. Unexpectedly, things started to happen. First the candles’ flames flickered, then various pieces of furniture began to move around, with a painting on the wall crashing to the floor. In a mirror hanging behind the table, a ghostly reflection appeared. It was a man whose face had melted on one side. The man was laughing, and appeared to be enjoying himself.
“What the hell,” Peter said aloud.
His mother stopped chanting, and the face vanished from the mirror.
Everyone at the table seemed to relax.
Peter did as well.
His mother said, “Henry?”
His father reached beneath the table, and came up with a rectangular wood board. He moved the candles off to the side, and placed the board on their spot. The board looked ancient, and was covered in numbers, letters, and astrological signs. It was a talking board.
His mother said, “Ready, everyone?”
The others bobbed their heads. His father removed a heart-shaped planchette from his jacket pocket, and placed it onto the talking board. Everyone placed their fingertips onto the planchette, and scrunched up their faces. The planchette moved deliberately across the board, stopping briefly to touch on different letters and symbols, before moving on. Suddenly, his mother jerked in her chair as if being shocked by a cattle prod, while her face made horrible contortions. The other participants drew back in their chairs, clearly alarmed.
His father said, “Claire!”
His mother shook her head wildly, causing the pearls to flop around her neck. Her eyelids fluttered, revealing nothing but white. She had become possessed, and was no longer in control of herself. A stiff wind blew through the room, sending everyone’s hair on end. The candles went out, throwing the room into darkness.
Peter squirmed in his chair. He tried to remind himself that it was just a film, but it didn’t calm him down. His father relit the candles. Everyone was standing at their places except his mother, who’d collapsed onto the table and appeared to be passed out. His father gently lifted his mother’s head, and spoke in her ear.
“Are you all right?”
His mother sat up straight in her chair. Her eyes were now bloodshot, her beautiful face dark and ragged with age. Her fingernails had grown several inches, and resembled talons. An evil spirit had invaded her body.
Jumping up, his mother tossed her husband across the room with a flick of the wrist. He crashed against a wall, and winced in pain.
His mother clawed viciously at the air, causing the others to coil away in fear. She was like a wild animal, and appeared fully capable of killing someone. This was not the same woman who’d nurtured and raised him; it simply couldn’t be.
He tore his eyes away to look at the mirror behind the table. The visitor had returned to the glass, and was again laughing at everyone’s expense.
He looked back at his mother. She was wrestling with Reggie, who was attempting to grab her by the wrists. Reggie was a foot taller and outweighed his mother by a hundred pounds. It didn’t matter. His mother tossed poor Reggie over a chair like a child.
Lester Rowe was up next, grabbing his mother from behind in a bear hug. Lester was strong for his size, but no match for her. His mother broke free, and raked her fingernails across Rowe’s face. Ribbons of blood appeared, prompting her to laugh wickedly.
His father returned to the picture. In his hand was a small brown bottle. He uncorked the bottle and tossed several drops of clear liquid his mother’s way. She screamed, and protectively covered her head with her arms. His father calmly corked the
bottle, and returned it to his pocket. Then he placed his hand comfortingly on his wife’s shoulder.
“Claire,” he said.
His mother struck out at him. The demon was slowly leaving her body, and the blow bounced harmlessly off her husband’s chest.
“Claire,” he said again.
His mother’s body trembled. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands. Her face had returned to normal, and she looked beautiful again. She seemed bewildered by what had happened, and glanced nervously at her friends.
“What’s going on?” his mother asked.
His father smiled thinly. So did the others in the room, who’d gathered around to comfort her. In the mirror, the demonic face faded away.
It was here that the film ended.
* * *
Peter lay in bed trying to make sense of what he’d seen. Before his very eyes, his mother had turned into a monster. Had the others not restrained her, there was no telling what she might have done. It didn’t seem possible. His mother had been the most gentle person in the world, and had never hurt anyone, as far as he’d known.
He felt himself becoming one with the darkness. Was he also turning into a monster? Would he at some point start to physically change like his mother had, and become out of control? He shuddered to think how his friends would react. He had wanted to know the truth about his parents, and now he did. His mother and father and their three little friends had struck a deal with the Devil. In return for their lives being spared, they’d allowed the Devil to inhabit their bodies, and give them psychic powers. There was no other explanation for the things he’d just seen. This was the origin of the Order of Astrum. Its members were in league with the Devil, and had been since they were children.
Which made him what? A child of the Devil? He wasn’t sure. All he knew for certain was that he was changing, and those changes had driven away the woman he loved.
He slipped out of bed, and threw on his robe. His body had grown cold again. He could feel evil nearby, stalking him. He looked around his darkened bedroom. He was alone.
Or was he?
He turned on the light and had another look. In the mirror above the dresser he saw the face from the séance. It was hideous to behold, burned so severely that one eye was gone. He had seen many horrible things in the spirit world, but none quite like this.
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
The face began to laugh at him.
He picked up a shoe from the floor, and threw it at the mirror. The face vanished the moment the glass broke. He had sent it back to wherever it came from.
He sat on the edge of the bed. His heart was pounding out of control.
He thought back to Liza’s text.
You’re scaring me.
You and me both.
PART III
THE WICKED ONE
29
“Do you have the money?”
Big Daddy, the ruthless dictator of Somaliland, nodded. He’d said little since arriving at the Order of Astrum’s magnificent estate in the south of England a short while ago. Wearing a black leather cowboy hat and denim jacket, he looked more like the villain in an Italian spaghetti Western than the despot of a tiny African nation. According to the newspapers, his country’s economy was in a shambles, and his people were close to revolting. He was a desperate man, and it showed on his face.
“I brought cash,” the dictator said. “Now give me the information. I am anxious to know when the attack on New York will take place.”
“You know the rules. I must first have the money.”
Big Daddy made a call to his driver on his cell phone. The driver appeared at the front door of the mansion with a bulging suitcase. Big Daddy brought the suitcase into the parlor, and dumped stacks of fifty-pound-sterling notes around his host’s feet.
“There is your money. Now tell me about the attack.”
His host visually counted the money before proceeding.
“Very good. Now here is your information,” his host said. “On Tuesday night, at a few minutes past ten o’clock, New York will experience a major attack in Times Square that will effectively shut down the city. Thousands will perish.”
Big Daddy’s eyes glistened. “Go on.”
“I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“That is unacceptable. It is not enough.”
His host did not like to be challenged, and his eyes narrowed. “I beg to differ. This information will serve two purposes, both being beneficial to you. It will send the stock market into a tailspin, as these types of events tend to do. You will benefit by shorting the market, and reaping huge financial rewards. Second, it will show the world how vulnerable the United States is. Both of these things serve your purposes, yes?”
“I must know more.”
“Sorry, but that was our deal. It’s not like you haven’t done business with us before.”
“Give me something, anything.”
“I can’t.”
“Will the attack be a bomb? Guns?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“How many men will be involved? A dozen? More?”
“Sorry.”
“What organization are they affiliated with?”
“I can’t share that information with you, either.”
Big Daddy fumed. A long minute passed.
“Tell me where your powers come from,” the dictator said.
His host leaned forward. Rarely did their clients ask them to pull back the curtains, and show them how things worked. “Do you want to know how we see into the future?”
“Yes—it fascinates me.”
“Have you ever visited the spirit world?”
“No.”
“There is a price of admission, if you will.”
“I will pay.”
“Are you sure?”
Big Daddy nodded, having no idea what lay in store.
“Very well. Come with me.”
* * *
They walked outside the mansion. The sun was shining, and it was a spectacular day. The Order lived on a sprawling estate in a remote area of England not far from the Chiltern Hills. The area was not on a map, nor could it be found on Google Earth.
The property had been run down when the Order purchased it. Tapping into its vast fortune, the Order had transformed the grounds into an occult appendage of Versailles, with each building more ornate and spectacular than the next. One building housed a Pagan temple, where the elders could indulge in every sexual fantasy known to man. Another was a museum which stored their vast collection of rare paintings and art work. Then there was the castle, complete with drawbridge and moat filled with brackish water, called the Palace of the Occult. It was here that the elders conducted séances and communicated with the Devil.
The two men crossed the bridge to the palace. By the entrance stood a pair of stone-faced guards with submachine guns. For security purposes, guards were strategically placed around the estate, with orders to shoot intruders on sight.
Inside the palace were a maze of twisting, dimly lit vestibules. They passed rows of Carrara marble statues and walls covered in gold leaf. On marble benches sat a trio of beautiful dark-skinned girls in diaphanous white and green garments. Plucked off the mean streets of India, they served as concubines for the elders and their guests.
The host stopped, and pointed at the girls.
“Pick one.”
Big Daddy pointed at the middle girl. “Her.”
His host waved his hand. The chosen girl’s eyelids grew heavy, and she fell into a trance. She rose and followed them as if sleepwalking.
“Is she hypnotized?” Big Daddy asked.
His host did not reply.
“At least tell me where we’re going. I don’t like to be kept in the dark.”
“Be patient. You’ll understand soon enough.”
At the end of the vestibule, a door opened by itself, and they entered a chamber whose walls were covered with burning white candles. In the room
’s center sat a wooden table with carved astrological signs. The girl climbed onto the table, and lay facing the ceiling.
His host opened a drawer on the table. A gold knife with sparkling jewels encrusted in the handle was taken out. He handed the knife to his guest.
“What do you want me to do with this?” Big Daddy asked.
“You don’t know?”
“No. Tell me.”
“I want you to plunge it into her heart.”
“What? You can’t be serious.”
“If you want to be like me, then you must pay the price.”
“Killing her is the price?”
His host laughed. “No. Giving up your soul.”
“And if I do that, will I be like you?”
“If you kill her, you can be like me. It’s how the process works.”
Big Daddy stared at the sacrificial girl lying on the table. Many times he’d ordered his army to kill citizens of his country that he did not like. It was not the same as killing himself.
The dictator shook his head.
“Suit yourself. Give me the knife,” his host said.
“Are you going to do it?”
“Yes. There is no going back with the Devil.”
Big Daddy handed him the knife. His host raised the knife above his head, and plunged it into the girl’s chest. She struggled briefly, her blood soaking her clothes. The candles on the walls flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.
“What is happening?” the dictator asked.
“Be quiet,” his host replied.
A cold wind passed through the chamber. The candles sparked back to life. The table was now empty, the dead girl gone.
* * *
They walked back to the mansion, where a limo waited in the drive. Big Daddy did not speak a word, and was visibly shaken. He climbed in, and the limo sped away.
