Day of the Serpent (Ouroboros Book 3)

by David Longhorn

  Day of the Serpent

  Ouroboros Series Book 3

  Written by David Longhorn

  Edited by Emma Salam

  Copyright © 2017 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Scotland, 1913

  Chapter 1: Innocent Bystanders

  Chapter 2: Sketches and Charges

  Chapter 3: Control Freaks

  Chapter 4: Strong Spirits

  Chapter 5. A Second Bite

  Chapter 6: Heads, Hearts, and Eyes

  Chapter 7: Consumption

  Chapter 8: The Crannog

  Chapter 9: Blood and Iron

  Chapter 10: Waking Nightmares

  Chapter 11: The Day of the Serpent

  Chapter 12: Gods and Monsters

  Epilogue: The Heart of the World

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  Prologue: Scotland, 1913

  “Someone called you the wickedest man in the world,” said the journalist, pencil poised above her notebook. “Another was a little more restrained and described you as merely the most evil man in Britain. I believe you have referred to yourself as the Great Beast? Or sometimes simply as Six Six Six?”

  Aleister Crowley picked up a teapot and poured out a cup for his guest.

  “I hope you don't mind, Miss Burns,” he said, “all I have is plain old Assam tea. And my housekeeping arrangements are so primitive that I have no sort of cake to offer you at all.”

  Leaning back on an old, worn out sofa, Crowley adopted a slight frown of concentration as he went on, “Now, as to my magical names; Megatherion, or Great Beast, is certainly one of them. And the triple-six is another. But the latter is not nearly as disturbing as one might think. In numerology, it refers to the sun. You may, if you like, call me Little Sunshine.”

  Catherine Burns could not help smiling. She had come to this remote house in the Scottish Highlands expecting to meet a monster. Instead, she found a witty, intelligent man, albeit one who dressed very unconventionally. Aleister Crowley was handsome, and if his eyes had not been so penetrating, Catherine might even have found him attractive. He had, after all, consented to be interviewed by a female journalist who simply turned up at his door unannounced. There were many upstanding Christians, of both sexes, who would not have treated her with such consideration.

  But, while polite and articulate, nobody would mistake Aleister Crowley for a typical English gentleman. At the moment, Crowley wore a plain white robe that the reporter felt might have originally been a nightdress. And there was something else about him, a troubling reminder of another scandalous figure. Catherine had never seen Oscar Wilde in the flesh, but Crowley slightly resembled photographs she had seen of the disgraced writer.

  “You seem to be trying to pierce my very soul with those wonderful dark eyes of yours, Miss Burns.”

  Catherine flushed, embarrassed to have been caught gawking like a silly girl. Crowley smiled.

  No, she thought, definitely not attractive. And not a gentleman, either.

  “Aren't you joining me?” she asked, gesturing at her solitary teacup.

  “No, I regret that I am approaching the end of a prolonged period of ritual cleansing,” he explained. “No stimulants, not even tea, can pollute my metabolism. Unfortunate, but sacrifices must be made.”

  “Why did you come all the way here from London?” she asked, as she jotted down Crowley's words. “Does this place have some mystical significance?”

  “At last, a sensible question!” Crowley clapped his hands with child-like pleasure. “I have come to Boleskine House because it is so far from London. Here, I can work without fear of being pestered by silly, small people with their trivial questions. Can you foretell the future? Do you worship Satan? Can you put curses on people? I grew weary of such nonsense.”

  Crowley shook his head in dismay.

  “Those things you mention are hardly trivial matters,” said Catherine, “certainly not for God-fearing people.”

  “Certainly not for your esteemed Presbyterian readership of the Inverness Gazette,” returned Crowley with a superior smile. “I was surprised to find that I had not outdistanced the press. Who would have thought newspapers existed out here in the wilds of Caledonia?”

  Catherine felt color rise to her cheeks. She was sensitive about her birthplace, and took her professional status seriously.

  “Inverness is a city, sir, often called the capital of the Highlands,” she said, “and has an erudite and well-informed population. And since you raise certain matters, perhaps you can answer those questions you mentioned?”

  The so-called magician raised an elegant eyebrow.

  “The answers are as follows. Sometimes I can foresee future events, albeit in a glass darkly, to quote scripture. No, I do not worship Satan, though I've often wondered if he is quite as bad a fellow as he is painted by some.”

  “And can you put curses on people who offend you in some way?” asked Catherine.

  Crowley looked at her for a long moment, as if scrutinizing a bug under the microscope.

  “No comment,” he said, finally.

  Catherine felt a slight chill, despite her thick woolen clothing. She remembered that she was alone at Boleskine House with a man often said to be depraved. Crowley supposedly enjoyed himself in ways that would be unmentionable in polite society.

  “What about the Order of the Golden Dawn?” she asked. “It is the best-known occult society in the world. Is it true that you've quarreled with all its leading members?”

  “It is more correctly termed The Hermetic Order,” Crowley corrected her, “and I have had disagreements with a few individuals. I am still a member, I believe. Rather like the priesthood, one cannot be thrown out by a mere vote. One must be ritually expelled, and nobody has dared try that on me.”

  “Can you explain the purpose of the ritual you mentioned?” she asked. “In terms my readers will understand, of course.”

  Crowley got up and went to a bookcase. The volume he took down was old, small, and bulky. It reminded Catherine of the Burns family Bible, but she guessed that this was nothing of the kind.

  “The Book of Abramelin,” said Crowley, sitting down again and opening the text. “It is a grimoire. You are familiar with the term?”

  “An ancient book of black magic,” she said, again feeling a chill.

  Crowley shook his head, again gave that superior smile.

  How I would like to slap you, she thought. With your smug London manners and your fancy talk.

  “Really, Miss Burns,” said Crowley, eyes wide with feigned astonishment, “physical violence is the last resort of the ignorant. And I might just slap you back.”

  “How did you know–” she began, then caught herself. Again, she blushed, and Crowley laughed.

  “You did not ask about mind reading, which I can do in a limited way. Powerful emotions, for instance.”

  He set the book down on the low table between them and opened it.

  “A grimoire is not a book of black magic,” he said, adopting a school-masterly tone. “It merely conveys certain mystical truths. This text, dating back to the late Middle Ages, offers different means to summon vario
us supernatural beings. To perform what is termed the Abramelin Operation, it is necessary to remain celibate and abstain from most worldly pleasures for six months. It is also necessary to have a house with a north-facing door, located on a site sacred to certain beings.”

  “This is a sacred site?” Catherine asked, surprised. “I thought it was just an old hunting lodge.”

  “Really,” Crowley said, “you should have done your research. Boleskine House was built in the 18th century on the site of an old church. It burned down. With the congregation inside.”

  “What a terrible accident!” exclaimed Catherine.

  “Or a rather obvious message from those beings I mentioned,” returned Crowley. “Now, let me tell you a little more. My purpose is to summon my Guardian Angel. You smile! But we are all born with such beings assigned to us, and if we can actually contact them directly we might acquire great wisdom, perhaps even immortality. Unfortunately, the route to such spiritual treasure is long and hazardous.”

  Catherine scribbled frantically as Crowley delivered an impromptu lecture on his bizarre and disturbing beliefs.

  ***

  Fergus Mackay was fishing.

  His job as caretaker and general servant at the Lodge was not especially onerous. As he had often remarked to drinking buddies, Mister Crowley may be a strange man, and an Englishman at that, but he was a fair employer. What's more, the Master employed a fine, buxom widow as his housekeeper. The good lady, Jean Brash, was bound to give way to Fergus's advances at some point.

  The only problem was the salmon. Or rather, the lack of them.

  Loch Ness was famous for its salmon, and Fergus enjoyed fishing in his spare time. This happened to be the ideal fishing season, so there ought to be plenty of gullible young salmon thronging the loch's waters. The trouble was that, try as he might, Fergus had landed nothing for days. When he had commented on this in the pub, others had said the same.

  “They're not biting,” muttered the old man.

  Fergus looked up and down the long, narrow expanse of Loch Ness. A small pleasure steamer was just visible, far to the north, but otherwise nothing broke the surface.

  So why do I get the feeling I'm being watched?

  He turned to look around through three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in the whole sweep of the loch and its shores. As far as he could see, he was the only living thing in sight. Normally, one might expect to see ducks or geese on the water, or deer drinking at the waterline. But now there was nothing.

  Almost as if, he thought, the wildlife are in hiding. As if there's something near that they're avoiding. Something evil.

  ***

  “And out here,” said Crowley, leading the reporter out of the house, “is my lodge.”

  Catherine's head was reeling. Her notebook was crammed with a shorthand account of his bizarre beliefs and practices. Crowley had founded his own religion called “Thelema.” The sacred text had been dictated to him by an Egyptian god as he spent the first evening of his honeymoon inside the Great Pyramid at Giza. The only commandment of his new faith was 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.’ Part of Catherine was revolted by the blasphemy of it all. But the professional side of her was exulting at the thought that it would make a wonderful story.

  “I still don't understand,” she admitted, as she walked onto a pathway made from fine sand. The building in front of them was a small gazebo, evidently new judging by the brightness of the paintwork.

  “To summon one's Holy Guardian Angel,” Crowley explained, enunciating slowly, “it is necessary to exit a north-facing doorway, follow a pathway of sand, and enter a place of mirrors. The Victorian spiritualists called it a psychomanteum. Come, I will show you.”

  He led her into the windowless gazebo, which was indeed lined with mirrors. A divan upholstered in red leather stood in the center. A book, a jug of water, and a cup stood on a small table. A series of black candles were arranged in a circle around the divan.

  “Disappointed?” asked Crowley, seeing Catherine's expression. “As I said, I do not indulge in satanic rituals, black magic, or any of that nonsense.”

  “But what do you do?” she asked.

  “As I said,” Crowley replied, somewhat testily, “I seek to invoke my Holy Guardian Angel. But you want a demonstration, no doubt?”

  Crowley took a box of matches from the table and walked around the small gazebo, lighting candles. Then he closed the door, shutting out the daylight. In the dim, flickering light, he sat cross-legged on the divan, closed his eyes, and lifted his hands until both were palm-outward. He began to mumble something.

  An incantation, thought Catherine, noting it down. She began to contemplate headlines. 'I Met The Wickedest Man in Britain.' Or perhaps 'The Black Magician of Loch Ness!'

  But despite the blasphemous nature of Crowley's beliefs, Catherine was starting to find him more amusing than offensive. He seemed more like a showman than a sorcerer. The candles reflected seemed infinite in number, but it was a cheap effect, reminiscent of carnival sideshows. Catherine began to wonder if gentle mockery, rather than moral outrage, might be the best line to take.

  'The Fraudulent Messiah,’ that might do, she thought. Or perhaps simply 'Charlatan Rents House in Neighbourhood.'

  Crowley's eyes opened. For a moment, she began to wonder if he really could read her mind. But then she saw the confusion and panic in his face. He composed himself quickly, but there was no doubt.

  Something has rattled our black magician, she thought.

  Crowley stood up and declared abruptly, “The ritual cannot be performed. Something is disturbing the ether.”

  “Wrong angel, Mister Crowley?” she asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Don't mock forces you don't understand!” he shouted, and again she saw fear in his eyes. Then he composed himself and went on, “We must leave, Miss Burns. Now.”

  Catherine was about to ask why when she noticed movement in the mirrors. The candles guttered, almost plunging the psychomanteum into darkness, despite the lack of any breeze.

  “What's this?” she asked, peering into the reflected darkness. “An optical illusion you've cooked up for me?”

  How can a thing have a reflection yet not be here in the room? Especially something so large?

  The shape in the mirrors moved closer, circling them. Crowley looked into Catherine's face then stared into the glass.

  “What can you see?” he asked. “What is coming? I can sense it, but I can't see it! This is wrong.”

  “You can't see it?” she said, wonderingly. “But it's so beautiful. Its scales shine so brightly.”

  ***

  Fergus laughed, albeit nervously, at the thought of some unknown creature frightening away the fish. He had been raised on folk-tales of ghosts, monsters, and strange water-beasts that supposedly inhabited every loch. And Loch Ness was no different. There was the legend that, in ancient times, some great serpent had risen from the depths, terrifying the local populace, only to be banished by Saint Columba. But, in this age of airplanes, motorcars, and telephones, Fergus was inclined to be skeptical about such things.

  “One thing's for sure, the fishing's lousy,” he said resignedly, and turned away from the shore to pack up his gear.

  As he did so, he heard a quiet splash behind him. He turned, but saw nothing except a spreading ring of ripples about thirty yards off the shingle beach. The turbulence quickly dissipated, leaving the blue-gray surface of the loch as featureless as before.

  Probably just young salmon at play, he thought. Taunting me, little buggers.

  Fergus turned once more, and once again there was a splash. This one was a little louder than the first. He turned quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever had broken the surface. But again, all he saw was a spreading circle of ripples, now much closer to the shore.

  Could be a seal, he thought. Seals sometimes got into the loch via the canals that linked it to the open sea at either end.

  Harmless bea
sts, but with a ravenous appetite for fish. Of course! A seal would have spoiled the fishing.

  Then a creature that was quite obviously not a seal broke the surface just a stone's throw away from Fergus. Huge, serpentine, and scaly, it looked at him with great golden eyes. Its mouth opened to reveal a dark, gaping maw. The creature's vicious fangs seemed to Fergus as long as his forearm. It ran a black, forked tongue around its lipless mouth, as he stood there, frozen in wonder that was rapidly turning to terror. Then it lunged forward, its sinuous body driving it through the dark waters towards the shore.

  ***

  “Go!” Crowley replied, grabbing her roughly by the arm and pushing her towards the door. She was about to protest when he did something extraordinary. He threw his free arm over his eyes, as if afraid to even glimpse at what was forming in the mirrors. “Don't look! Don't meet its gaze!”

  But it's so beautiful, she thought, resisting Crowley so that she could gaze at the mysterious form. Two bright golden points appeared, and grew to become eyes that looked deep into her mind. So wonderful, so graceful, so immense, she thought.

  I could look forever.

  The marvelous being from the mirror world was closer now, so close she could almost reach out and touch it. Catherine was vaguely aware that Crowley had let go of her arm and was rushing back towards the divan.

  'I am Ouroboros. See my beauty. Look deep into my eyes. Become one with me.'

  The words, silky sweet, seductive, echoed in her mind. All thought of proper Christian conduct was swamped by the eyes, the words, the overwhelming desire to become one with the wonderful creature that was now coiling its glittering body around them. Each flickering candle had become a shining scale.

  “Oh yes,” she gasped. “Let me be yours.”

  A tremendous crash shattered her reverie. The little three-legged table was now two-legged, and smashed like the mirror which Crowley had hurled into it. The beautiful, fascinating eyes were gone.