Invitation to Evil
A Max MacAulay Novel
Sandler L. Bryson
Copyright © 2020 Sandler L. Bryson
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to the family, friends, and educators who have shaped me and supported me throughout the years.
"Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil."
--Aristotle
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
About The Author
Books By This Author
Intro:
It Ain’t Your Pop Pop
There was a loud crash of shattering glass as the porcelain vase collided with the mirror that hung on the far wall of the living room.
“Look out!” Max shouted.
Max jumped forward to shove De Cruz out of the way. Both men narrowly avoided the barrage of broken glass and pottery that rained down.
“Gracias,” the priest said.
“De nada Padre,” Max replied.
The pair stood against the far wall looking at the overturned pastel-colored couch, a broken lava lamp, a broken coffee table, a shattered vase and mirror, and a disheveled vinyl collection. The living room of the Webber family had become a virtual warzone. Only the family’s flat-screen TV remained unscathed.
Maxwell Palinarus MacAulay III (“Max”) sighed. It had all started so simple. As was usual, his friend Father Lazaro De Cruz had contacted him about a family in distress. A couple (Wilfred and Maria Webber) were being plagued by a minor demon. It started when the couple had tried to contact Maria’s long-deceased grandfather, Mr. Leland Frisbe. A large photograph of Mr. Frisbe hung on the living room wall of the Webber’s home. The painting depicted a slim man with broad shoulders, stark white hair, and brown eyes. The man was dressed in a charcoal gray suit and had a closed mouth smile on his face. In the beginning the entity had pretended to be Maria’s grandfather (her Pop-Pop as she called him). It had even been supportive by helping find lost items around the house, etcetera.
The situation had changed when the entity became hostile and increasingly more violent. The creature even attacked Maria while she was sleeping. This happened on several occasions. One attack left what appeared to be three claw marks across her lower back. These violent episodes came with other phenomena, such as loud banging noises (usually at midnight and always in sets of three) and a smell like rotten eggs. Everything being done in iterations of three (the banging, the claw marks, etc.) were a mocking of The Holy Trinity. These mockeries are what lead Father De Cruz to determine the events were not merely the works of a malign human spirit but were instead demonic in nature. The priest had attempted an exorcism of the house, but that did not help. In fact, it seemed to exacerbate the problem. The priest had eventually contacted his friend Max MacAulay, who specialized in investigating and, when necessary, combating paranormal phenomena.
Standing just over six feet tall and most of it muscle, Max cast a commanding presence as he stood in the middle of the room. He had a tonsured head, dark brown eyes, and a well-kept beard, the blackness of which shone like dollar box shoe polish. Not a bead of sweat glistened on his dark brown skin as he surveyed the room. Max had come to the Webber’s prepared to battle a demon. The fight had turned out to be more of a battle than he had expected. While not a major power, the demon infesting the home was strong. The air in the room was so rife with tension; Max felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up like they had been hit with a static charge.
“Do you think it’s gone now?”
The question came from Wilfred Webber. He and Maria stood huddled together in a far corner of the room. The scrawny man had his wife wrapped tightly in his arms. Secretly, Max wished the answer to the question was yes, but the tingling sensation coursing through his body (the same feeling that had his hairs standing on end) told him otherwise.
“No. It is just hiding…waiting,” Max said.
The attack came from the right.
There was an audible growl. The overwhelming smell of sulfur wafted into the room.
“The creature’s back!” Father Lazaro shouted.
The warning was unnecessary. Max could feel the exact presence of the spirit (oily and revolting) near him. Max’s right hand began to glow with an indigo light. His eyes flashed the same color then quickly returned to their usual dark brown.
There was a loud boom like thunder as the overturned coffee table flew towards him. Max easily dodged the object. The table crashed against and broke into pieces.
“Demon, I see you!” Max shouted. He raised his glowing hand.
Max could not exactly “see” the demon, but his unique ability to sense fine details about spirits allowed him to pinpoint the demon’s exact location.
“I do not fear you!” Max said.
He raised his glowing hand and pointed it towards the demon with his palm open. A bolt of indigo energy shot out of his palm. The bolt streaked towards the demon. There was a clap like thunder followed by a flash of light as the beam connected with its target.
Channeling the power of his soul into a weapon, an ability Max had dubbed his soul blast, was another unique gift that made him especially valuable and adept at his chosen profession.
The demon howled like a wounded bear as the bolt struck. Everyone in the room besides Max covered their ears. Max remained focused. He pressed his attack. The wound must have injured the creature more than expected, for after the blast, the demon became partially visible, manifesting itself as a shadowy mass of darkness. The nebulous form was large, extending from the floor to the ceiling in a rolling cloud of inky blackness.
Max heard a scream off to his left. Whether it was Wilfred or Maria, he was not sure. Max saw Father De Cruz appear on his right. Though visibly shaken, the priest was strong and forceful as he commanded the creature to leave. The demon let out a growl, this one louder than before. Max felt no fear, only a rising sense of anger.
“Demon, I said be gone!” Max yelled.
He sent another indigo bolt flying towards the entity. A wave of violet electricity coursed over the demon’s amorphous form as Max’s soul blast slammed into it. Wisps of shadowy smoke drifted off the creature’s body. The demon shouted in a language Max did not understand. Max was not an expert in languages, but he recognized the language as Aramaic. He didn’t need to be a linguist to recognize the demon was hurling curses at him.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You don’t like me,” Max said. Max focused. He used every ounce of will, every emotion he was feeling (fear, anger, disgust) to channel energy for another soul blast. A sphere of indigo light the size of a basketball surrounded Max’s hand.
“Well, guess what?”
There was a crackle of energy as Max unleashed the sphere of energy and sent it str
eaking towards the fiend.
“I don’t like you much either, asshole.”
Just like the first two times, Max’s aim was true. The demon screamed as the bolt hit. The scream was louder than before. Max heard glass shatter somewhere in a distant room. There was audible pop like a gunshot. Max saw Wilfred and Maria staring wide-eyed in fear. Then the shadowy mass dissolved.
The Webbers stood statue-still, waiting for something else to happen. Max and De Cruz both of whom were familiar with combating demons, knew the threat had passed. There was an airy lightness to the house. It was literally like someone had turned on a bright light in a pitch-black room. A faint scent like fresh roses wafted through the home.
Max looked at the Webbers.
“It’s over,” he said. “The demon has been banished. You can relax now.”
“Are you sure,” Maria asked.
Max scratched his beard before answering.
“Well, the fucking Cubs won the World Series, so I am not sure about anything anymore, that being said, I am fairly certain the demon has been banished. I don’t detect anything anymore, but if it makes you feel better, you can ask the priest if you wish.”
The dark-haired woman held her husband’s hand tight.
Father De Cruz confirmed that Max was correct.
The next few minutes, Max relaxed as Father De Cruz went over a few preliminary matters. These matters mainly consisted of saying a prayer of thanksgiving and safety for the couple and assuring them the demonic infestation had been handled to finality.
Max interjected on this last part.
“The matter has been handled, but if you don’t take care, it can come back.”
The Webbers turned to look at him. A look of fear was in their eyes. Max continued his explanation.
“For a demon to invade, a portal has to be opened, an invitation of some sort has to be extended to it.”
“What do you mean?” Maria asked. “We don’t deal in black magic or anything like that.”
Wilfred nodded to confirm what his wife said before speaking himself.
“My wife’s right. We are good decent people.”
Max shook his head. He pointed to an overturned side table. A flat wooden object with writing on it rested beneath the table.
“The spirit board you were using served as the invitation for the entity. Now, I am not like my good friend Father Lazaro here. I don’t believe spirit boards or Ouija boards, as most people call them, are inherently evil.”
Max saw the priest give him a scowl. This was one topic they had discussed often before and one which they had agreed to disagree on. The priest believed inherently that using Ouija boards was evil and against his faith. Max simply thought the spirit board was no more inherently evil than any other tool.
Max ignored the cleric’s scowl and continued speaking.
“Ouija boards or any method of trying to contact spirits can be very dangerous to the untrained user because malign spirits can be tricky. They will often pretend to be helpful at first, even going so far as to impersonate good friends or loved ones so that you will keep calling on them and thus invite them in further.”
The couple looked at other guiltily.
Max continued.
“Once they have infested the home, their true nature comes out. Such entities seem to feed on fear and negative emotions. When you let them in, they will do things to isolate you from your family, friends, one another, and as they do, the negative emotions grow.”
“Which means the evil spirit grows stronger,” Maria said.
Max nodded.
“Yes. This is what happened here. It was a classic case of an evil spirit. In this case, a demon pretending to be your Pop-Pop so that it could gain a foothold into your lives and attempt to destroy you, but right now, you can rest assured the creature is back where it belongs. I am just warning you of the dangers of messing around with the occult if you have no training or guidance. This time we were successful. Next time the problem might not be so easy to get rid of.”
The Webbers clasped hands. Wilfred spoke.
“Thank you, Mr. MacAulay. We are done with messing with the occult. You can believe that.”
Max smiled.
“Good to hear. I hope you don’t mind if we take the spirit board with us when we leave.”
“PLEASE do!” Maria Webber said.
Max saw that Father Lazaro De Cruz had already picked up the object and was wrapping it in a white cloth.
“Okay, then. We will be going,” Max said.
He shook Wilfred’s hand. Maria gave him a heartfelt hug and a “God bless you” as they departed.
Outside it was a chilly Tuesday afternoon. The leaden sky hinted at the threat of rain.
Father Lazaro carried the spirit board clutched tightly under his right arm. The cloth that covered it had been specially blessed with prayers and holy water. The priest often used the garment to help transport items that had been the object of a haunting or demonic incursion. He had a room in his home he used to store the relics. The room, like the cloth, was blessed and sealed to help prevent any evil spirits from escaping. Max walked beside the priest.
“Well, that was another good deed done. Another fam—”
Father Lazaro stopped speaking as he saw Max stumble.
Max grabbed the spoiler of his car to keep his balance.
“Hey, are you okay?” Father Lazaro asked.
Max saw the priest looking at him. Concern marred the priest’s face. Max leaned against the rear of his car, a 1987 Pontiac Fiero. The car was laser red with metal flake paint. In the sun, the car sparkled like strawberry champagne. Given the overcast conditions, very little sparkling was taking place.
“Yeah, I am fine. Just need a minute,” Max said.
A little over three years ago, he had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The initial signs of the disease had been present a few years before the official diagnosis. The beginning stages of MS had been easy to ignore or mistake for something else. The signs included a slight numbness in his legs and feet, a brief loss of motor control which he choked up to just being clumsy, forgetting simple things which everyone does sometimes. It was only after a full-scale MS exacerbation happened during which he had been completely unable walk and was hospitalized that the condition was detected. His treating physician had ordered an MRI. The MRI came back showing GD lesions consistent with multiple sclerosis
The type of MS he had was called relapsing remitting, meaning the disease followed a general a pattern of worsening and improving in a cyclical manner. No scientist or physician had been able to determine the exact cause of the disease, but certain factors like extreme temperatures or high stress could lead to a relapse. One would think with his chosen profession, Max would be a cripple. But for the past few years, Max had kept his condition in check via a combination of a strict exercise regime, martial arts, diet, his own supernatural abilities, plus medication his neurologist had prescribed. There were the occasional stumble and fall or spasticity in his limbs and other minor annoyances, but for the most part, the MS didn’t bother him. The only time Max really noticed his MS was near the end of the month when he was due for his infusion and/or when something took more out of him than he had expected. Both of these caveats were currently the case.
“I just need a sec to orient myself,” Max said.
Lazaro continued to look at his friend with concern. Even through the black jacket Max was wearing, Father Lazaro could make out the shape of his friend’s broad shoulders, barrel chest, and knotted biceps. Standing roughly six feet in height and weighing just below two-hundred pounds with hardly an ounce of fat, Max looked to be a specimen of perfect health. For the most part, he was, but Lazaro was aware of the disease his friend had battled the last few years. He had seen what an MS relapse could do. He never wanted to see his buddy in that state again.
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Max watched Lazaro eyeing him. The worry on his face was evident. Max figured some people would have been offended by the level of concern, considering it pity, but Max knew De Cruz’s worry was genuine and not steeped in pity. Max considered himself lucky to have people like Laz that cared about him.
“I am good. There’s no need to go all fatherly on me, Father.”
For the most part, Max spoke the truth. His left leg was still a little wobbly, but he could feel the dizziness subsiding. The sense of fatigue still remained.
“I am due for my treatment tomorrow. All I need is to get home and get some good food and a little sleep and I will be fine.”
Lazaro shook his head.
“Yeah, I have seen your definition of good food. I will pass on that, but if it helps you, more power to you.”
Max chuckled.
“Hey! Just because I don’t believe in deep frying everything does not make it bad. You do you know you can bake, broil and grill food too, right?”
They both laughed.
After convincing Laz he was okay, the two friends climbed into their respective vehicles (Max into his red Pontiac Fiero and Lazaro into his silver-gray Hyundai Elantra) and prepared to head home.
Max looked at himself in the rearview mirror as the Fiero’s engine roared. Beads of rain (or perhaps it was sweat) stood atop his bald head. The dark brown eyes that stared back at him were weary with fatigue. Max felt the chill of the day seep into his bones, adding to tiredness. He zipped up his Members Only jacket as he turned on the heat.
His right leg tingled and for a moment, Max feared he was having a bit of spasticity, then he remembered his phone he had placed in his pocket. Max withdrew the cell. The buzzing had been his fiancé Jennifer sending him a text message. Jen was reminding him they were supposed to have dinner tonight at 7:30. They had plans to eat at this new restaurant called Yo! Mama Mia’s that was a fusion of soul fool and Italian. The garlic cornbread and pork chop parmesan were one of Jen’s favorite combos. Then they had planned to go to the local theater to catch a late showing of The Jewel of the Nile. Max had almost forgotten about tonight’s arrangements.
Invitation To Evil: A Max MacAulay Novel Page 1
