Manhattan Grimoire

by Sandy DeLuca

“OK, OK,” I say as I look beneath the candle rack. It’s just a dirty rag. It’s all right.

  Rico puts his arm through mine and guides me through the entranceway. His face is stoic. His free hand curls into a fist, and I feel his heart pounding as we move closer together. Smells of candle wax, sweet incense, flowers and dampness permeate the area. We move inside the church itself. It’s empty, but something invisible, something wicked and damned is present. I can feel it. Snow falls from the broken skylight, shimmering as it catches candlelight and melting as it touches the water-soaked floor. Moisture drips from walls and for a moment it looks as though blood is trickling down wooden carvings and marble replicas hanging there. The tin can of coffee, Allie’s brew, is now overturned and at the feet of a statue of Michael the Archangel. His spear points downward as if about to attack, and the serpent at his feet is curled around his legs, its sharp fangs biting into his right ankle. Angels at the altar do not look angelic. Their eyes are tinged with red and their fingers are distorted. Is this how they were sculpted and created, or has Mojo DeCanne altered them for his own purposes?

  “Is this Hell?” I ask Rico as I look toward the splintered wooden crucifix. It’s different too. Someone has inverted it and the sad and tortured Christ has been replaced by a bloody skeleton. The bones are broken in many places. There is still flesh on the face and one eye dangles from its socket.

  Dark things flank banisters on the second level, bat wings flutter and shining green eyes glare down at us from the shadows.

  He sighs heavily. “As close as you’ll ever be to the place, I imagine.”

  “Gina and Rico in Wonderland.” I try to laugh but nothing comes out, my fear strangles it to silence in the base of my throat.

  “Even Alice didn’t have to deal with this kind of crazy. I’d rather have tea with the white rabbit any day. She would’ve been playing a different tune if she had the DeCanne clan fucking with her, I’ll tell you that.”

  Somehow our silly banter distracts us enough to keep us moving deeper into the church.

  “You shoulda brought a camera,” Rico says, “recorded as much of this as you could.”

  A harsh wind seems to come from nowhere and the temperature seems to drop at least ten degrees. One of the angels smiles slowly, and blood trickles from her lips.

  Insane laughter erupts from the rafters above. Martin DeCanne glares at us from there and he laughs again. The laughter rises to a high pitch then wanes. He’s silent for several seconds as though gathering his thoughts before he speaks. “My great grandfather left a legacy for me. He left me magic, his books; his life’s work. I learned a lot of tricks and I’ve brought him back through me. He’s inside me, working his magic. He’s in this city, resurrecting followers from forgotten graves” He smiles at me. “He sees potential in people like you. The living can cause such havoc if they’re trained well. I choose you.” He points at me then slowly moves his aim to Rico.

  “You’re a mortal man, just like me,” Rico shouts. “You’re just insane.”

  “Could be, little Rico, could be. But insanity gives you power, makes you fearless, sets you free.” DeCanne walks as he speaks, moves towards the stairs then slowly begins to descend them. “Rico, you have your father’s blood in you. How close have you come to killing? He’d already murdered a man at your age. I think you’re on the verge. All you need is a little help, a little push. What about the lover that left you? How many times have you plotted to follow him, find him and strangle him with your bare hands?”

  “It’s just human emotion. I’d never…” I feel Rico shaking when he speaks.

  “He’s just a man,” I whisper, “nothing more.”

  DeCanne stops then sweeps his hands back and forth in one grand gesture.

  Black birds spiral from somewhere behind him and fly toward us. They scream and beat their wings like devil drums, seemingly coming from within him. He looks directly at me. “Just like the dreams, Gina, just like the things inside your head.”

  “It’s an illusion,” Rico says as beady black bird eyes stare into mine, their sharp beaks tearing at my clothes. “Gina, tell yourself it’s not real.”

  One of the birds bites into my cheek and I feel warm blood gush down my face; see it trickle onto my hand. “You’re not real!” I scream, wishing the hell birds away.

  And then there’s silence.

  I touch my face but find no blood there, no damage. I look toward DeCanne and say. “Go back to Hell with your great grandfather. Go back where you fucking belong.”

  “Not so easy,” he says, waving his hands once more. Demon things with hooked claws and tongues studded with sharp blades appear. “Tell me these aren’t real. My great grandpa gave them to me. Now I’m giving you to them.”

  “You’re fucking ridiculous,” I tell him, tension firing through my body. “You look like something out of a B-movie.”

  “Gina, Gina, Gina. Your sister dared to be and do things you only dream about. You were jealous of her, no? Growing up you wished she’d fall from the apple tree she dared to climb. Later you wished the Harley her boyfriend drove would veer out of control and crash. I hear all your prayers, bitch.”

  A woman manifests before DeCanne. On her knees, a knife in hand, she cuts her face. But it isn’t until she looks up at me, her eyes wide and scared, that I realize it’s my sister. “I want to cut it all away,” she says, her voice slightly garbled. “Maybe you’ll love me more if I cut all the bad away, Gina.”

  A lump forms in my throat and my eyes fill with tears. “Allie, no, I never meant...”

  “And your mother. You were ashamed of her. You couldn’t bring your friends to your house for fear she’d have one of her episodes. She couldn’t sit you on her knee and read to you like a normal mother. She was too busy thinking of herself, about how bad her life was, how her demons were tearing her apart. You wished her dead and your wish came true.”

  Allie’s image wavers then disappears, replaced with my mother, standing there now and dressed in a bloody nightgown. Her wrists and ankles are cut, crimson rivulets drip from her flesh. “Gina, Mommy did it for you, so you could have a life, have friends.” My mother’s face changes and Mojo DeCanne’s eyes gaze into mine. “But blood is blood and you’re just as insane as she was, just as insane as your sister. And you wished them both dead. You’re the most evil of all.”

  “It wasn’t my fucking fault, you sonofabitch, I—”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Rico shouts at me. “Don’t listen!”

  The visions vanish, leaving only Martin DeCanne visible through the darkness, smoke and shadows. He laughs and waves his finger back and forth as ashes drift in the place where his demons once stood. He smiles a slow, wide, hideous smile and removes a dagger from his coat. The hilt is shaped like a dragon’s head, the eyes red rubies. “The dragon. He’s magical, fiercely passionate, a symbol of strength. Some would say I’ve perverted this strength, made it unclean.” He steps a few steps closer. “But I have my reasons.”

  Rico takes my arm, gently guides me backward as he speaks. “Look man, the cops will figure it out. They know it’s you. They saw you shoot the cop back at the apartment.”

  Still grinning demonically, DeCanne points the dagger at us. “You think cops concern me?”

  “There’s evidence, a trail way too big you’ve left,” Rico tells him. “You won’t get away with it, man, not this time.”

  DeCanne strokes the dagger with sexual glee. “No one cares about either of you. You’re both rotten to the core, just like me. Ready to die, children?”

  I scream Rico’s name but DeCanne is already on the move, leaping forward like a feral cat and flying at us as no human being ever could.

  As he lands he knocks Rico down and I hear him cry out. I stagger away, trying to keep my balance as blood trickles to the floor around me. Rico’s blood. I fight off the instinctual desire to run because there’s no point. I could never outrun DeCanne and he’d only pull me down from behind and stab me in th
e back. But I know if I stand here and do nothing he’ll kill me for sure.

  I spin around, trying to find DeCanne again. And then he’s right there, eyes fastened on mine, mocking me. “It’ll be slower for you,” he whispers. “Much slower.”

  He moves towards me with inhuman speed, clamps his clammy hand onto my wrist and begins dragging me toward the altar. He’s so strong my resistance does little to stop him and I stumble along after him like a child in the throes of a tantrum.

  The church around me is a blur as the eyes of saints and sinners watch in passive silence and the dark things along the ceiling lift their wings and float above us, buzzards waiting for death’s inevitable arrival and their turn to feast on all that remains.

  I fall, crash into the altar where I’m thrown. DeCanne looms over me, the dagger to my throat. “Nice and slow,” he whispers. “I’m going to cut that dark part of your soul out and feed it to you. As it grows and becomes stronger, we’ll nurture it, mixing it with your blood. And when it’s reached its full power and you’re nothing but a hollowed out husk of what you once were, I’ll send you to Hell with my great grandfather like the piece of shit on the bottom of my shoe you are.”

  A fleeting memory plays out before me. Daniel kisses me, gently makes love to me. Daniel, sweet Daniel, I could have loved you so much. Where are you now?

  A soft voice sounds in my head. “I’m so sorry.” Anna DeCanne kneels beside me, seemingly appearing from nowhere. She looks to Martin. “Stop this now. The magic I taught your great grandfather was never meant for this lunacy.”

  DeCanne’s eyes water as he reaches for her.

  “Stop,” she says, and pulls away. “Stop this, Martin. Stop this.”

  He wipes his eyes and shakes his head. “Too late, it’s…it’s too late now.”

  The dagger shines and the rubies on its hilt seem to come alive. Layers of spells, of souls murdered and captured inside rare gems flicker before my eyes. Mojo’s dark eyes stare back at me, full of hate. And then I know I’ll never leave this awful place alive. Anna clicks her tongue, touches me gently. “Don’t give up. I’m the reason why you’re here and I’m the only one who can deal for you now.” She waves her hand and I see a young girl standing in a playground. She’s crying and her dress is torn. Her beautiful black hair shines under radiant beams of sunlight filtering through the leaves of tropical trees. The girl sobs harder as she watches other children play catch and a game of chase. But then the scene changes. Green leaves turn dark and brittle, and the sun no longer shines. The same girl, a few years older now, lies on bloody sheets, screaming as a hooded woman bends over her and mumbles words in another language. The words come faster and faster as she bends deep between the crying girl’s legs. Within moments a baby emerges, dark and covered with crimson clots. She quickly wraps him in a black shawl. Turning back to the shivering girl, she closes her eyes and whispers, “Bad omen, this child, born during the darkest part of the eclipse.” The woman opens her eyes, reveals black glistening orbs, no longer human. “God help you, Anna.”

  “Alone,” Anna says, speaking slowly, deliberately, “from the time I was a child, always alone and mocked by others, left to bear my son in shame—alone again. I learned the magic from the very woman who helped bring Mojo into this world, and I swore I’d do good with it, never evil. But he wanted revenge because he loved me so much. He swore he’d make humanity pay for his mother’s suffering, for their cruelty. In the end he took my life as well.”

  DeCanne, crying again, tears streaming down his otherwise maniacal face, waves the dagger near my face. “I’ll cut the darkness out, I—I’ll cut it all out.”

  “No, Martin.” Anna moves between us and gently takes my hand in hers. “No.”

  Falling…I see her falling away from me through a tunnel glimmering with white light…or is it only snow falling, cascading down upon me from a broken skylight?

  Am I dead already?

  I hear whispers somewhere nearby—prayers or chants, I can’t be sure which as they’re not in a language I recognize—then the light slips away and returns me to darkness.

  And whatever waits for me there.

  29

  I once read about how after death you shed your physical body and enter another plane or dimension. Where you go depends on how you lived your life, the things you thought about and how you treated others. I haven’t been perfect. I cursed Dave and look what happened to him. I admit I was jealous of my sister at times, wishing she’d just disappear so I’d get more attention. I even admit I was ashamed of my mother. I’ve done other things too. I once made a doll out of rags and yarn and called it Mrs. Redding (after a Math teacher in my senior year of high school). Throughout the year I’d stick a pin in the doll each time Mrs. Redding gave me a less than average grade. She was a robust woman in September. By October she’d lost her double chin. In November her bones poked through her arms and wrists and right before Christmas break she passed out in front of the class. She never returned to school. In the spring I heard she was slowly and painfully dying in a cancer ward at the old state hospital. In May she died. I threw the doll in a box beneath my bed, pins and all, but for months I’d dream about her screaming in some hellish place, throwing test papers in the air—my test papers—and begging me to take out the pins. I finally did remove them and buried the doll beneath the bright yellow Queen Elizabeth roses in my father’s garden, dappling the grave with holy water I took from a font at the local parish church. The dreams stopped, but Mrs. Redding was still dead.

  I could be dead now, I know this. I could be on one of those dark planes I read about, where vibrations are low, where demons reside. My feet tingle and my hands are numb. I hear voices, some swearing, others telling me how much pain they’re suffering.

  I see myself as I pass a mirror, one with hissing serpents creeping around its frame and bones dangling from its edges. I look closely and see I’m drenched with blood, my face sliced with flesh rivulets. I am filled with rage when I hear Mojo’s voice. “Give me back what’s mine, bitch.”

  I see a shadow, even darker than the deepest blacks in this place…just before I feel his breathe on the back of my neck. I gaze at myself once more. The bloody bag containing Dave’s heart is still draped over my shoulder.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Mojo grabs me, spins me around. We are both suddenly engulfed in an inferno. Orange flames lick at our bodies while lost souls scream in agony beneath us. Yet neither of us burn. He smiles, staring deeply into my eyes, “Your sister’s down there, you know. I had her so many times I even came back through Martin just so I could fuck the shit out of her again.”

  I remember the dream I had of Allie, blood spurting from between her legs.

  Reading my mind, Mojo laughs. “Your friend Rico’s down there too.” He leans in closer to me so his lips nearly touch the side of my face. “And so is your heartthrob Daniel. He’s not the saint you think he is.”

  “All you tell are lies.” My hands, feet and body slowly regain feeling. The cuts on my face hurt and my back feels as though someone has broken it in two. The weight of my bloody satchel intensifies as I gaze into Mojo’s hateful eyes. “I’m not listening to them, not anymore.”

  “I’m the only one you’ve got to listen to, bitch. I’ll tell you stories about the world you left behind and year after year you’ll cry when you think about your beloved city and all the things you could’ve done.”

  “You’re dead,” I tell him. “And once Martin dies, once they give him the needle for what he’s done, you’ll never be able to walk the Earth again.”

  “Not true. There’s always someone willing to play the game for me. The dead are a dime a dozen. I’ve resurrected countless numbers of them. They’re already walking around up there, among the living, undetected. They’ll help me whenever I say.”

  As the flames part, beyond more fire, I see fields of gravestones where mourners crawl on their hands and knees. They look at us, eyes bloody and dead, palms up, the
ir flesh torn to reveal bone and blue veins. Their sadness fills me. I wish I could scoop them up, bring them to a place where there is light, where Buddha, Mary and Jesus smile with hands clasped in prayer and where the beauty of pure and sinless souls is enough to make everything OK.

  But nothing is OK and we drift further into Hell, over bodies hanging from splintered tree branches, hands clasped in fruitless prayer and mouths open with everlasting screams. The temperature changes and heat dissipates as we float over a place where mothers search in vain for children they will never find, in shallow graves, in rat-infested alleys and in the never-ending avenues of a snowbound city. It’s freezing and it’s snowing like it was the last few days I spent on Earth.

  “Different levels of Hell,” DeCanne tells me. “We’re approaching your eternal place of agony, but I can let you go if you tell me what I want to know. Tell me where she hid my spell. Tell me now, and I’ll set you free.”

  His black eyes watch me, waiting for an answer.

  I smile. It fades from my face slowly, deliberately. “Fuck you.”

  Mojo growls in anger, grabs my arm and pulls me down. The snow covers me quickly, stinging my wounded face, hurting my body even more. He rises upward, floats away and melts into darkness. I hear the screams of the dammed as snow clings to my hair. And then I hear his voice. “There’s no way out of here.”

  I look to my bloody bundle. I unhook it from my shoulder. I have to work quickly.

  I crouch down and attempt to open the bag, but my hands, cold and stiff, hurt terribly. I rub my palms together then lift the bottom of my sweater, place my hands on my breasts then tuck my sweater down from the inside. A bit of warmth spreads through my fingers and into my wrists.

  “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK,” I tell myself, but then I hear Mojo’s horrible laughter and my heart sinks. I look upward and see him descending toward me.

  I slide my hands from beneath the sweater, open the bag and remove the heart. It’s awful, blood congealed over dangling shreds of flesh. I swear it pulses with each beat as Dave’s voice torments me. “Go fuck yourself,” I tell him. I drop it on a mound of snow and begin to dig into the freezing white powder.