Crowley's Window (Novella)

by Gord Rollo

  CROWLEY'S WINDOW

  GORD ROLLO

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Author's Note

  Bonus Short Story - Memories of a Haunted Man

  About The Author

  More Books From Gord Rollo

  Connect With Us!

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Copyright © 2012 by Gord Rollo.

  Visit his website at www.gordrollo.com

  All rights reserved.

  Memories of a Haunted Man

  Copyright © 2012 by Gord Rollo and Everette Bell.

  Published by EnemyOne

  Ontario, Canada

  Visit our website at www.enemyone.com

  Cover Design by Adam Geen.

  www.adamgeen.com

  Cover Image (Eye) from Kati at www.silaynnestock.deviantart.com

  Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends or blog readers about the work to help us spread the word. Thank you for supporting our work!

  “There was something awesome in the thought of the solitary mortal standing by the open window and summoning in from the gloom outside the spirits of the nether world.”

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  British Mystery Author and Physician (1859-1930)

  PART 1

  HAWKINS HOUSE

  Millbridge, New York

  May 5th, 2004

  The only light in the room came from five tall black candles burning at the outer points of the crudely drawn pentagram in the center of the living room hardwood floor. An older couple sat cross-legged on the ground, nervously facing one another inside the sacrilegious symbol. For a stretch of ten full seconds the farmhouse fell blissfully silent, an admittedly brief yet somehow everlasting moment in time that had both Jarrett and Ingrid Hawkins holding their collective breath, clutching at each other’s cold clammy hands, and praying to whatever gods might be listening that the nightmare was over.

  But then their daughter began to scream again.

  And again.

  Her mother shrieked too, unable to contain her emotions any longer—a high-pitched wail of despair and fear—and released her claw-like hold on her husband to ball her fists over her ears, futilely attempting to drown out the child’s agonizing cries. She’s only a little girl! Ingrid thought, her tear-filled eyes desperately searching her husband’s for any sign of hope.

  Jarrett had none to give her. Tall and lean, his circular eyeglasses precariously close to falling from his thin, crooked nose, he sat stone-faced and motionless, emotionally drained and silently accepting that he could do nothing to help either of the people he loved most in this world. His wife was tough, though. A small fiery redheaded farmwoman that was as hard and wiry as he was. Jarrett knew she would survive this night, would soldier on regardless of what happened. But Abigail? Jarrett had no idea what would happen to their sweet little Abby.

  It was still too early to tell.

  Abigail Hawkins was thirteen years old now, her birthday just last week, and she was Jarrett and Ingrid’s only child. They’d waited until late in life to start a family; waited too long perhaps, with Jarrett being forty-five years old and Ingrid a few days shy of forty-three when Abby had been born. In their mid to late fifties now, both could still vividly remember that day and how everyone present had known the child was different right from the minute she’d slid from her mother’s womb.

  At first, Jarrett had thought she’d been born without a face, but before panic could set in and thankfully before Ingrid got a look at her, the woman doctor who’d delivered the baby gasped and made the sign of the cross over her ample bosom. Thinking quickly, she’d grabbed a nearby scalpel and cut a small slit in the blank space where the child’s mouth should have been. There was a great intake of air and their tiny daughter was finally able to breathe on her own.

  The doctor explained that Abby had been born with what was called a birth cowl; a thin membrane of skin completely covering her face. It was extremely rare and if they believed in such things, traditionally a mystical sign that the child would grow up to possess extraordinary psychic powers. A further surgery had been required to remove the extra layer of skin but beneath the mysterious cowl was a beautiful, perfectly healthy baby girl. The Hawkins had brought home their little girl and had done their best to deflect and dismiss the attention some members of their small community had wanted to heap upon the strange circumstances of her birth and soon they were just a regular family again, forgotten by the masses just the way they preferred.

  “There must be something we can do?” Ingrid asked, another squeal of pure madness coming from Abigail in her room down the hall.

  “Quiet, woman,” her husband said. “You know this is out of our hands now. We have to wait for Crowley.”

  “But what if she’s hurt herself again? Or worse? Go check on her.”

  Worse? Jarrett thought. What could be worse? “We can’t break the pentagram. We have to do what Crowley says.”

  “But he’s not here yet. Surely you can just take a quick look? Please Jarrett…we can’t just let her suffer like this!”

  Sweat was pouring down Jarrett’s face and despite his stoic posture, inside this night of transformation was killing him too, maybe even more so than it was his wife. He was terrified of disobeying Crowley, but it was driving him mad sitting here doing nothing while his only child suffered alone in the next room. Another lingering scream from Abby’s room convinced him.

  “Okay…okay. I’ll have a quick look. You stay here though.”

  Jarrett stood to his feet, knees popping from sitting cross-legged for so long, and carefully stepped out of the star without allowing his bare feet to touch any part of the occult drawing. Clear of the pentagram he headed directly for Abby’s bedroom, opening her door as silently and gently as he could, hoping not to disturb her. His stealth was unnecessary; the young girl on the single bed was totally absorbed in her nightmare visions, oblivious to her immediate surroundings.

  Abby was a small girl with long dark hair like her father’s. Usually a fit and healthy girl but tonight she was pale and fragile looking, her skin slightly jaundiced and sweating profusely. Her eyes, normally a beautiful shade of jade, were bloodshot red and bulging out of their sockets. Twin lines of syrupy blood openly leaked down her cheeks; crimson tears that stained her bleached white pillowcase on both sides of her face. Abby’s arms were pulled in opposite directions, strapped tightly to her headboard and her feet were still bound together at the baseboard, just the way Jarrett had last left her.

  Good, he thought. She’s doing okay.

  Jarrett backed away from the door and returned to Ingrid. Seated back on the floor within the boundary of the candles again, he tried his best to reassure his wife. “She’s fine. I mean…not fine, but she’s okay. She’s still tied up and can’t hurt herself anymore.”

  Earlier this evening, when the change had began, Abby had started thrashing uncontrollably and wailing inconsolably on the bed like someone was electrocuting her. She’d began screaming in obvious agony and once the visions had taken over and flooded her mind, she’d tried to claw her own eyes out of her head rather than be forced to see the things she was being shown. Jarrett and Ingrid had been forced to bind her to the bed for her own protection. At least the straps were holding.

  Abby began to scream again.


  “Damn it,” Ingrid said, “Where is Crowley? He promised he’d hurry.”

  “He’ll come. No worry about that. He’s been waiting for this night since the day she was born.”

  “Maybe you should call…” Ingrid started, but they both heard the front door open and then slam shut again. Fear bit off the rest of her sentence and all she could do was stare into her husband’s haunted eyes.

  “It’s him,” Jarrett whispered, reassuring himself more than his wife. “Things will be okay now.” Shouting to the new arrival, he said, “We’re in here, Reverend.”

  The telltale scent of Lavender and honey permeated the house, strong and sickly sweet. And beneath that naturally pleasing aroma, barely masked, was an odor of decay and rot as well, of rancid meat left to spoil in the sun. Marcus Crowley stood beside them before Jarrett and Ingrid had time to realize they were no longer alone, entering the living room like a wraith, silent and deadly in his black overcoat and matching fedora hat. His clothes may have been dark, but his skin and hair were as white as snow. People would often notice his red-tinged eyes and think he was an albino, but they were wrong. Others might laugh (though they’d never dare do it to his face) and think surely he’d seen a ghost and that’s what had shocked his hair white. They’d never know how close to the truth they’d come.

  Crowley was tall and rake thin, but regardless of his slim stature, seemed to fill the room with his presence. He’d possessed the same overbearing personality and powerful aura years ago, back when he’d been an actual preacher in the Pentecostal Church, and even now, decades later his followers still called him Reverend out of respect and fear. Not that he had many followers left, mind you; which was fine by him. He only needed a devoted handful for what was to come. A few obedient people…and of course, the girl.

  “Is she bleeding?” Crowley asked.

  “Yes, Reverend,” Jarrett started to reply. “Sorry but we couldn’t get her tied down fast enough and she scratched her face pretty badly trying to claw out her—”

  “Not her face, fool! Her body. Has she become a woman yet?”

  Since Abby’s birth, Crowley had been watching over her, carefully monitoring how her psychic powers had grown but all along he’d been telling them how her intuition and visions were nothing compared to what she’d be capable of once she hit puberty and her hormones kicked into high gear. Her menstrual cycle would unlock the doors to her true potential and right from the beginning Crowley was convinced her powers would be immense. He’d been waiting on this night for a long time.

  “She had her first period, yes,” Ingrid said, terrified of the man hovering over her. “She’s been having cramps for days, but the blood started to flow this afternoon, not long after we called. You have to do something. She’s in agony. And the visions… she sees such terrible things! She can see the evil in the world. All of it. Look straight into the hearts and minds of all the madmen and murderers. Into the very fires of Hell itself, she said! You have to help her. Please!”

  From the bedroom, Abigail began to scream again, and although it made both her parents cringe, they noticed how their daughter’s pain seemed to please the man they’d put all of their trust in. His smile was obvious, his joy at her suffering unmistakable. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a long, thin-bladed knife, its serrated cutting edge glinting in the candlelight.

  “What… what are you going to do?” Ingrid asked, panic pulling the breath from her lungs and making it difficult to speak.

  “What you wanted. I’m going to help her. Stay here. Both of you. No matter what you hear. Understand? This won’t take long.” Without another word Crowley strode off down the hall, leaving the Hawkins to stare at each other in frightened silence.

  Several minutes passed. Nothing happened. No one moved. The tension in the house was unbearable and staying quiet only made things worse. “Oh God…what have we done?” Ingrid asked, sobbing unabashedly now, close to hyperventilating, tears flowing in torrents down her cheeks. Her husband was about to ignore her, sitting rigid as a stone again, fists clenched at his side with his eyes tightly closed but he opened them when he realized what she’d said.

  “God? What does he have to do with this? We turned our back on Him a long, long time ago, remember?”

  If she’d forgotten, Abigail’s gut wrenching scream in the next room helped remind her. The young woman shrieked again and again, her cries escalating louder and louder, tearing her throat raw with her suffering. Ingrid tried covering her ears but still couldn’t keep out the unbearable noises. Unable to stand it another moment, she leapt to her feet and tried to run to her daughter’s aid. She had no idea what Crowley was doing in there but whatever it was she planned on trying to stop him. Consequences be damned. Abby was still her little girl and she had to try and help her.

  “No!” Jarrett cried, trying to grab for her but Ingrid’s arms were sweaty and she slipped out of his grasp and ran for the hallway. Jarrett had no choice but to chase after her. Luckily he caught her just as she reached the bedroom door, and pinned his wife up against the wall to try and talk sense into her. “Ingrid, please…you can’t interfere.”

  “Watch me, coward,” she said, spitting in his face and doing something she’d never done in all the thirty-two years they’d been married—kneeing him in the groin as hard as she could. It didn’t put Jarrett down and out, but it came close, making him stagger a little, releasing her just long enough that she could make a lunge for their daughter’s bedroom door.

  Before her fingers could touch the knob though, the door was pulled open from within and out walked Reverend Crowley, larger than life and not looking pleased that his orders hadn’t been followed. He forced a smile on his face anyway, a dark and cruel smile that withered and stole all that remained of Ingrid Hawkins’ anger and strength. Behind the Reverend, her daughter’s body lay quiet and still on the bloodstained bed. Ingrid leaned against the wall and prepared herself for the worst.

  “Is…is Abigail dead?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” Crowley said. “She’s the one I’ve been waiting for. The one we’ve all been waiting for. I’ll send a doctor I trust over to tend her wounds but don’t worry; she’ll be fine. I promised she would be, didn’t I? You need to listen better, woman. Disobedience is something I don’t tolerate often. Lucky for you I’m in a good mood tonight…but don’t ever test me again.”

  Ingrid ignored Crowley’s warning and pushed past him to go check on Abby. At the bed, she turned on the table lamp to get a better look at her poor unconscious child. Only then did she realize what Crowley had done to her, and what a savage monster he truly was. She slumped down onto her knees beside the bed, a broken soul, already beginning the process of shutting down from reality but not quite ready to let the man responsible for destroying her life walk away just yet. Unable and unwilling to look at Abby anymore, Ingrid turned to face Marcus Crowley again, her body shaking with rage and bitter hopelessness, her grip on sanity holding on by a thread.

  “Why?” was all she said. All she could say.

  Crowley was by the outside door, preparing to leave the house but he paused to answer her; his eyes like burning coals in the darkened hallway, a cruel, calculated smile on his face.

  “Because you asked me to help her. That’s why. You said she could see into the fires of Hell, didn’t you?” From inside his large coat, he pulled a small glass mason jar and shook it in Ingrid and Jarrett’s direction. They could both clearly see the jar was three-quarters filled with some amber tinted liquid, and floating inside were two small white orbs with jade colored circles staring back at them.

  “Not anymore, she can’t!”

  PART 2

  TOWNSEND TRAVELING SHOW

  Westchester, Pennsylvania

  June 25th, 2010

  The carnival came to town every June, usually on the last weekend of the month and the two young men sharing a lukewarm six pack of Budweiser in the parking lot had been wandering the same gauntlet o
f overpriced food stands, rigged game booths, and greasy outdated midway rides since before they could remember. There was nothing else to do in this little shithole of a town, and as lame as,l, the Townsend Traveling Show was, it at least was something for them to do. Much better than playing the same old video games down at the arcade or hanging out night after night smoking low-quality stale homegrown pot under the bleachers at the baseball park. And seeing as Raymond and Charlie Jensen had both recently turned 18, there was reason to be optimistic about this year’s event.

  Tonight, after several frustrating years of failed attempts to gain entry into the one and only cool area of the carnival—the Sideshow Curiosities tent—the twin teenage brothers would actually be able to walk up to the ticket booth and legally buy their way inside. Curiosities was the politically correct term the owners had chosen, but everyone in Westchester, young and old alike, knew what was really inside the huge canvas circus tent—the Freakshow—the dark heart of the carnival and probably the only reason old man Townsend had been able to keep his traveling show afloat all these years.

  Ray and Charlie had been waiting what seemed like forever to get a close look at the gallery of deformed animals and other medical oddities that made the show famous throughout all the tiny backwoods communities it toured every season, but most exciting of all was getting in to see the live human exhibits. Seeing the actual “freaks” was what really had the boys cranked up tonight.

  “We gotta go see the Lobster Boy,” Ray said, tossing down his empty beer can into the grass and reaching for another Bud. “I heard he can cut a Pepsi can right in half just like he was using giant tin snips or something. That’s fucking weird!”

  “Not that weird, Bro,” Charlie said. Ray and he were twins but they were far from identical. Ray was two inches taller, had a naturally muscular body the girls all seemed to love, and an acne free complexion. Pretty much the polar opposite of the nerdy Charlie, who carried about twenty extra pounds of fat around his belly and was the poster boy for blackheads and pimples. Of the two, Charlie was the youngest (by 15 minutes) but people would look at his chubby body and prematurely thinning hair and swear he was at least five years older than Ray. Most people hardly even believed they were brothers, much less twins. “I vote we go see the Bearded Lady. On the posters her beard hangs down to her tits, man! We gotta check her out, right?”