by Tim Meyer
I checked my watch to see how much more of this nonsense I'd have to suffer through. It had only been fifteen minutes. It can't last longer than an hour, I thought, hoping to sneak out unnoticed as soon as it ended.
“Let us give thanks to Satan, our Master,” Boone continued, holding a chalice up in the air as if it were a trophy. “We will drink the blood of the two-horned demigod to celebrate our Order.” He drank from the glass, wiped his mouth with a black cloth. “Let us align,” he told the people in the pews. They rose, lining up in front of the altar like Catholics during the Eucharist.
As the line began to move, I noticed the girl in the black sweatshirt rising from her seat. Instead of jumping on the end of the line to receive the goat's blood, she removed herself from the ceremony. I watched her head toward the exit. Before disappearing through the double doors, she caught me staring. I quickly turned my attention to the floor. She was pretty, around the same age as me. Upper twenties. No way she was over thirty. After she left I looked back at the exit. I wished I could have followed her, but I knew I had to stay. At least a little while longer. I was hoping I could catch Olberstad and Aunt Danica in the parking lot, smooching perhaps. I could snap a few pictures, give them to Uncle Bernie, and be done with this detective bullshit.
My attention turned back to the black altar. Carter Boone was at it again.
“Children of the Black Book. Our mass has concluded. Let us end in prayer,” he said. Boone raised his arms as if to say “repeat after me.” Before he spoke, a smile stretched across his wrinkly face. “Satanas domino, lux in tenebris...”
6
I cowered in the pew, waiting for it to end, and the crowd to disperse. Some of them left the church as soon as Carter Boone left the altar. They formed a small crowd in the corridor, and to be perfectly honest, the thought of walking past them frightened me. I was an outsider. And who knew what they liked to do with outsiders.
Turn you into next week's goat's blood... a not-so-happy voice suggested.
After the group had shuffled to the end of the of the corridor and into the small entrance room where the doorman had unpleasantly greeted me, I made way toward the exit. Marty Olberstad and Aunt Danica were walking, perhaps no more than ten feet in front of me, hand in hand. Marty leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She cocked her head back and laughed. The hood of her robe fell back, revealing my aunt's long, curly-brown hair. She twisted her head to the side and planted a big wet one on Olberstad's right cheek.
I writhed my lips in disgust. Poor Uncle Bernie.
Inside the foyer, Danica told Marty she was going to change and she would meet him at the car. He smiled and patted her bottom playfully. Then he headed toward the exit—which happened to be the same door as the entrance—where the unfriendly doorman and Carter Boone bid their visitors a pleasant evening. Boone shook Olberstad's hand and then he disappeared into the darkness outside. Boon turned to me, and his smile faded from his face.
“Newcomer,” he said, his voice booming as if it were still coming through the loudspeakers. “Welcome. First time at one of these?” he asked.
“How'd you guess?” I asked. My face fixed a smile, but my nerves tingled with uneasy tension.
“I too, believe it or not, once sat in the back pew, sinking deeper and deeper into my seat, asking myself what the hell I had gotten myself into,” he said. The smile returned. It did not comfort me. Not one bit. “Tell me...” he trailed off, waiting for me to give my name.
“Ritchie Naughton,” I replied. If I weren't about ready to wet my pants, I would have had the good sense to give him an alias. But my mind was swimming in a pool of thoughts—all of them about my fate if this orchestrator of evil happened to find out that I was spying on two of his members. Every scenario ended up more or less the same; with me either being publicly crucified (Saint Peter style) or my heart being ripped out of my chest, and eaten by a band of Satan-worshiping cannibals. Ludicrous thoughts, of course. Despite the whole Satanic priest thing he had going on, Carter Boone actually seemed—pleasant.
“Tell me, Ritchie Naughton; what made you find us? Has a particular event happened in your life, to cause you to question your faith in the one who calls Himself God? Or are you just looking for an alternate way to spend your Saturday nights?” He smiled again, a smile I did not fully trust. “Are the bars on the boardwalk not doing it for you anymore?”
His sidekick—Mr. Happypants, who answered doors—was now grinning, exposing his pearly whites, the few he had left. He was missing three teeth (that I could see), two on the top, one on the bottom. Boone's wise crack—which I didn't find particularly funny—made him giggle, which came out more like a rhythmic hum. I paid little attention to him.
“I'm not a big bar person actually.”
“Then why, may I ask, is the reason you've graced us with your presence here tonight?” I struggled to find one. “I sincerely hope it is not to mock us. To run and tell your friends what you saw here. To make jokes about our religious beliefs. Or maybe it was something to write about perhaps? To write stories about how Devil-worship is all about giant sex parties and slicing open innocent animals as an offering to horned Gods? Contrary to popular beliefs, we are not sadistic people, Mr. Naughton.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. My intentions are pure. I assure you. I'm not—”
“Good night, Carter,” a woman's voice said from behind me. “Excellent service tonight.”
“Danica, my dear. How good it was to see you again. Can I count on your appearance next week?” Boone asked.
I turned to see Danica, whom I haven't seen since I was in diapers. It had been a while. I almost forgot what she looked like. She had always been a gorgeous woman, and the years did little to change that. Although she was never a big part of my life, a part of me had grown concerned that she'd recognize me. The chances were slim. I doubted my mother sent my uncle updated photos of me (I actually don't think my mother had any to send), and even if she had at some point, maybe in high school, I doubted my uncle would be one to have them framed and hanging on his living room wall. No, I doubted she'd remember me at all.
“Of course. Have I missed a mass yet?” Danica asked.
Boone shook his head. “Of course you haven't.” He turned his attention to me. “Danica, this is Ritchie. He is new to the group—a long way from becoming a member—and he was just telling me how much he enjoyed tonight's service.”
“Nice to meet you, Ritchie,” she said. She glanced at me for a second, seemingly unaware that I was her nephew, and then turned back to Boone. I felt like I had dodged a bullet at point blank range. “Carter, speaking of newer members; I was wondering if I could talk to you about a particular matter that has been bothering me.”
“Go ahead.”
“It's Aurelia. I don't think she deserves to be... inducted next weekend.”
“I understand your concern, Danica, but Aurelia has been a solid addition to our church.”
“Don't you think it's a little premature for her to be going through the ceremony? She's only been coming for a few months. It took me a year to become worthy enough for my transformation. I don't believe she is ready. Plus, in case you haven't noticed, she left early again tonight.”
The cute girl in the black hoodie. Aurelia. She had caught me glancing at her when she stormed out of the church in somewhat of a hurry.
“I did notice,” Boone told her. “Trust me when I say Aurelia is a very bright student. She will be spectacular, I promise you.”
“I trust you, Father,” Danica said. She used the term “Father” the way we used to address priests when I went to Catholic Mass, before my father died. My mother stopped taking us after the sickness had taken him. “It's her I do not trust.”
“Consider your concerns addressed, my child,” Boone said.
Danica nodded, her lips curling ever so slightly. “Goodnight, Father.” She walked out of the door without turning to me, or wishing me a good night. This suited me just fine, how
ever, because I figured the less contact I had with these people, the better off I'd be.
Boone turned toward me. “I apologize. Aurelia, you may have noticed her, she was sitting in the pew across from you, is receiving a sacrament next week.”
“A sacrament?”
“Yes. It's when someone becomes an official member of our congregation,” Boone explained. “There is a ceremony. A very intense ceremony. Those who do not understand our ways will probably misconceive it, and misinterpret its true meaning.”
“You mean someone like me,” I responded.
He smiled again. “Don't get me wrong. I'm not telling you you're uninvited. It just might seem a little... strange to you, being an outsider and all.” I didn't know how much more bizarre it could have gotten, but now he had me curious. “I trust if you show, you'll retain an open, receptive mind.”
“I can do that.” If my aunt and her secret lover were going to be there, than he could bet I'd be there too. “Thank you for the experience, and the chance to... seek alternate religious methods.”
“The ways of the Creator—God if you will—is not for everyone. Not everyone enjoys being told what to do, how to live their lives. Here we do not command people how to live their lives. We give them guidelines. And with the awesome power of our Infernal Majesty, we can obtain secrets to live our life completely, without compromise. Without faith. Magic is our faith, and we can show you how to receive every gift you ever wanted. And you don't have to pray to a voiceless God to do it. Come next week. We will show you.”
I nodded, shook his hand, and exited the house.
Olberstad, Aunt Danica, and pretty much everyone else who attended the Black Mass, had vacated the premises. My car stood alone in the dirt field that was Carter Boone's parking lot. I walked through it, wondering what exactly I was going to witness the following week.
The possibilities terrified me.
7
I took several photographs of Boone's quiet sanctuary before I threw the car in drive and put the house in the woods in my rear-view mirror.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The night before seemed surreal, a lucid dream like the one I had involving Lynne and her lizard-like lover. Except this somehow seemed worse; I woke up and realized that it had not been a dream, but what I had witnessed was reality.
Most of Sunday morning was spent trudging around in my bathrobe, working on the website in fifteen minute intervals. I would work, get bored, maximize my word processor and begin typing what I had seen the previous night. I hoped I could build some sort of story around it, but nothing came.
What I really wanted was to get my pictures developed. I took a few more hours tidying up the site, punching some more words into the not-so-blank screen in front of me, before calling Cameraland to see what hours they kept on Sundays. Little Chris told me they were open until six.
I hung up the phone, got dressed, grabbed the Denlax, and rushed to my car. I had plenty of time, but I was eager.
I arrived at Cameraland within a half hour. I strolled up to the counter and presented Little Chris with the film I wished to have developed. I told him I wanted 8X10s, in which he told me that they'd be ready the next day. I must have made a face that told him I was dissatisfied.
“Is that not okay?” he asked, his eyebrows climbing his forehead.
I shrugged. I couldn't explain to Chris how badly I wanted those pictures developed that day. There were at least two clean shots of Olberstad. I was curious to see how my detective work turned out. “I was really hoping I could have them today, but it's okay. I'll stop back tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “You know what? I can have them done today.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It'll probably take to closing, but I can get them done.”
“I don't want to be a pain in the ass.”
“It's no big deal.” He snatched the film off the counter. “Besides, you're like our best customer.”
I smiled. “I owe you one, man.”
He squinted his eyes at me. “You're awfully excited about these photos, mister. I'm not going to find anything illegal in here, am I?”
“Call me Ritchie. I never liked mister. And no, nothing illegal. Just a few pictures of some people and a house. Nothing exciting.”
“Okay, Ritchie. I'll see you at six.”
“I really appreciate it.”
I never should have had those pictures developed.
2
I didn't want to go back to the zoo. It was Sunday and the kids were home. Plus Robert and Anne had off. I decided to venture to the Red River North Mall, where I could wander around for a few hours or so, maybe find something to eat and drink at the food court. I arrived there shortly after one o'clock and debated how I'd spend the next five hours pretending to shop. The mall wasn't overly crowded, which I found surprising considering it was a Sunday afternoon in pro-football's off season.
The Red River North Mall was pretty big as far as most malls go. It was three-stories; they added one in the six years since I had last been there. I started wandering through the giant department store called Rizzo's, going through the men's section at a leisurely pace. I had no intentions of buying anything and I had to fend off several employees who were overly eager to assist me in whatever it was I was looking for. “Just looking,” I told them. “But thanks.”
There were few places in the mall I really wanted to visit. I perused the sporting goods store and held a fifteen minute conversation with one of the clerks about treadmills. I pretended to be interested in one to pass the time.
One of the stores I was excited to spend my time in was the bookstore, located on the third level. There used to be a bookstore on the first level when I was a kid (which was long gone), and my mother used to take me every week. She always bought me one new book a week, barring I had finished reading my previous purchase. I didn't find out until much later in life that my mother was too lazy to drive to the library; the mall was much closer to home. She'd rather pay for a book than drive to get them for free. Plus, “When you buy a book,” she later told me, “you have it forever. You don't have to worry about returning them!” My mother assumed I was a destructive little brat and I guess she figured she'd end up paying for them anyway. To her credit, I did lose most of the books she purchased.
I love the smell of bookstores. It invigorated me for some reason I was never be able to explain. When I walked into Brook's Books, I felt more alive than I had in the past few months. I didn't think about coming home to find Lynne and Buster doing the horizontal polka on my bed, nor did I think about the basement I felt like a prisoner in, nor the reconnaissance mission I recently embarked on. I wasn't thinking about my stupid camera and the photos I was anxiously waiting to see, or the cult meeting I had witnessed the previous night.
The smell of books cleared my mind, and purified my soul.
There was also the faint smell of coffee, which I followed first.
After the young lady behind the counter served me a 16oz hazelnut coffee with sugar and creamers, I headed down the aisles, in search of something I could dig into to pass the next few hours or so. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. After last night's bizarre episode I was officially on a supernatural kick. I was interested to see if there were any books written on offbeat organizations dealing with powers beyond the realm of reality, or anything regarding the occult. I found the section of the bookstore labeled NEW AGE/SPIRITUALITY and thought that would be a good place to start.
And then I saw her, in the aisle I was intending on walking down.
Her. The cute girl with the black sweatshirt. The cute girl who sat—like me—in the last pew. Aurelia. She was to be officially accepted into the group next weekend in a ceremony that I was not uninvited to.
The church's candles did not do her looks justice. She was much prettier in the bookstore's fluorescent lighting. Plus, it helped she wasn't wearing a hood over her head. I felt nervous about approaching her. What could I ha
ve said to start a conversation? Oh, hello. Great cult meeting last night. I especially loved the part when we tried to raise Satan from the underworld. Good times! No. That would be ridiculous. Besides, something told me that Devil worship is a lot like Fight Club.
I took a gigantic sip of coffee, took a deep breath, and walked over to where Aurelia was standing. Her eyes were glued to an A-to-Z encyclopedia regarding monsters and mythical creatures.
“Looking for some light reading?” I asked, as I walked past her, pretending that a book further down the aisle had peeked my interest.
She shot me a glance. Obviously confused, she shook her head. “Do I know you?” Aurelia asked.
“Um, no. Well, kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“Let's say we share... a common interest,” I told her.
“Wait a minute,” she said, squinting her eyes as if she couldn't see. “I do know you. You were at the church last night. You sat in the back row, looking like you just shit yourself.” She smiled.
“That obvious, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah. It's okay. I wouldn't worry too much. It's a normal reaction the first time. A lot to accept, I think. I almost wet myself my first time too.” She was pretty, much more attractive than previously noted.
“Wow. Glad to know I'm not alone there... Aurelia, was it?” I asked, although I already knew.
“Yes. How'd you know?” Her brow furrowed.
“I overheard Boone talking to one of the other members.”
“Ah, Danica.”
“Hm, how did you know?”
“She's the only one who would be talking about me to Boone. She's a royal pain in my ass,” Aurelia said.
“What else do you know about Danica?”
She took her eyes away from the book she had skimmed through and looked at me curiously. “Why? You have a thing for older women or something?” She didn't look like she was joking.
