Ash: Return of the Beast

by Gary Tenuta

  He did as he was instructed and looked at the Messenger. “So, now what?”

  “Relax and close your eyes. Take three deep breaths, in through the nose and out, slowly, through the mouth.”

  Cowl followed the instructions.

  “Again. Deeper.”

  Again, Cowl complied.

  “And once more.”

  The Messenger waited and then spoke in a slow, hypnotic tone. “Now… trace the lines of the Seal… in your imagination… until you see it clearly… in your mind’s eye… absorb the color… feel the power… let it become… part of you.”

  Cowl felt his body beginning to sway back and forth, ever so gently, rhythmically. As if in some drug-induced dream, he sensed his consciousness merging with the image of the Seal.

  The Messenger looked on approvingly. When the moment was right, he telepathically transmitted the words of an evocation into Cowl’s mind.

  Cowl recited the words as they filtered into his brain. He repeated them again, louder this time, and then a third time, nearly shouting. His voice echoed off the walls of the room:

  “Old Ones! Hear me this night, this hour! Gaze upon me from thine ancient tower! To thee my body is open, my mind is open, my soul is open! Old Ones! Hear me! I call thee from thy place of rest! Find me worthy of thy test! Daras sharod! Intu!”

  Immediately, his gentle swaying motion shifted to an involuntary, vibrating frenzy. Something was pulling at him from the inside out, tugging at his soul, sucking him out of his shell. The intensity of the vibration increased at a furious rate until he could no longer hang on.

  With a sudden jolt, he was catapulted outward into a dark and timeless void. He floated, weightless, with no sense of direction, no up, no down, just a disorienting ecstasy of nothingness. Jesus… this is beautiful… this is…

  His reverie was interrupted by a faint, muddled din of voices––far off in the distance, somewhere beyond the darkness that surrounded him––aged voices, solemn, wooden voices murmuring like a grove of ancient oaks conferring with the gods, passing judgment on some soul. Then, for a brief moment, as if looking through the wrong end of a telescope, across an eternity of space and time, he caught a glimpse of himself kneeling at the center of the Seal. The voyeuristic sensation of separation was at first disturbing then liberating, intoxicating. He wanted it to last forever. But the moment ended abruptly as he was sucked into that long, dark voyeuristic tube and instantly hurled across the void and back into the confines of his mortal body. He collapsed onto the floor like a deflated balloon.

  The Messenger waited for Cowl to regain his senses. “Welcome back,” he said, finally. The Old Ones are pleased. You have passed the test. Your ‘Someday’ is another step closer and Master Crowley is anxious to join you. In five short days the great transformation will take place and the resurrection of the Beast will be complete.”

  The days passed in a blur: more instructions, more memorizations, more education on the protocols of the rituals, revelations of many dark and powerful secrets known only to a select few over the centuries. Rye Cowl could now be counted among the few.

  The ninth and final day of the grueling process had finally arrived and it found the young initiate weak and disoriented. For the previous three days he’d had nothing to eat or drink save for a single slice of bread per day with a cup of water to wash it down. The fast was necessary, the Messenger insisted, in order to purify the body for what was coming.

  Cowl sat cross-legged at the center of the Seal, his naked body clothed only in the ceremonial robe once owned by the senior Mr. Moorehouse. With the urn cradled in his lap, he gently traced its smooth contour with the tips of his fingers. He was about to give birth to something beyond his imagination. He looked up at the Messenger and spoke in a weak but determined tone. “I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Three Months Later…

  Inside Moorehouse Manor

  Ravenwood was half way across the darkened living room when she heard something. She spun around, pointed the gun with her finger on the trigger. Kane matched her move. A light came on.

  Cowl was standing in the doorway between the dining room and the living room. His hair was dripping wet and he was wearing nothing but a blue terrycloth bathrobe. He threw his hands up. “Whoa! What the hell? Who the fuck are you? What are you doing in my house?”

  Ravenwood sized him up, and lowered her gun. Kane moved around to a position behind Cowl.

  “FBI,” Ravenwood said, flashing her badge. “Are you Rodney Duckworth, a-k-a, Rye Cowl?” She didn’t really need to ask. She recognized his chiseled good looks from the photo on the flyer. At the moment, though, he looked more like a Hollywood version of a California pool boy than a Death Metal superstar, much less a master of ritual magick. But she had to admit, whatever he was, he certainly came well packaged.

  Cowl gave an angry smirk. No one called him Rodney Duckworth. “Yeah. What the hell do you want?”

  “We just want to talk,” Kane said. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “No. Just me. I just got out of the shower. Why?”

  Kane wasn’t buying it. “Is that right? Then who opened the front door when we knocked?”

  Cowl shook his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “We knocked at the door. Someone opened it. If it wasn’t you then it was someone else.”

  “Check the place out if you want,” Cowl said. “Nobody here but me and a few rats. You two are the only people who’ve been in here since I bought the place.”

  “C’mon,” Kane said. “A guy like you must have parties here all the time. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. Right?”

  Cowl turned and glared at Kane. “I keep to myself.”

  Ravenwood took a quick glance down the hall. “What’s down there?”

  “Couple bedrooms, a bathroom and the library. What’s this all about?”

  Ravenwood looked at Kane. “Wait here. I’m going to check it out.”

  She returned a minute later and pointed to the curved staircase. “And up there?”

  “Couple more bedrooms, another bathroom. C’mon. What the hell do you guys want?”

  Ravenwood started up the stairs but paused on the second step. She lolled her head to one side as if she sensed something. She stepped back down and moved over next to Kane. “Okay. I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “You got a nose for that, too?” Kane asked.

  “Sort of. Put the gun away.” Then she turned to Cowl. “Relax. Put your hands down. Have a seat.”

  Furnishing the old manor had not been high on Cowl’s list of things to do. The once elegant dining room now consisted of a fold-up card table and two kitchen chairs. The cavernous living room dwarfed the single old black leather couch and the matching over-stuffed chair, leftovers from the Moorehouse days.

  Cowl moved across the room and sat on the couch. “I take it you guys didn’t come for an autograph.”

  Kane remained standing and moved to within three feet of Cowl.

  From Cowl’s perspective, Kane’s tall, bulky frame cast an intimidating presence in the dim light.

  Ravenwood played the good-cop role and sat on the edge of the over-stuffed chair that was conveniently situated facing the couch. “Obviously you know about the situation that occurred at the concert hall before your show last night, right?”

  “Yeah. Some preacher died in the restroom. What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Well,” Kane said, “it had something to do with you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He was there to organize a protest against you and your band. You couldn’t have been too happy about that.”

  Cowl smirked. “Oh, that. Big fuckin’ deal.”

  “Apparently it was a big fuckin’ deal to someone.”

  Ravenwood jumped in. “Where were you yesterday evening between four-thirty and five o’clock?”

  “Here. I was going over the lyrics to o
ne of our new songs, getting ready for the gig.”

  “Can anyone verify that?” Kane asked.

  “Just the rats.”

  “You didn’t make any phone calls? Nobody called you?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you knew the preacher was planning a protest. That didn’t bother you?”

  “Hell, no. You can’t buy that kind of publicity. Why would it bother me?”

  Ravenwood gave an understanding nod. “Good point. Your band’s doing really well, I hear.”

  Cowl leaned back into the couch. “You could say that.”

  “Mega Therion means the ‘Great Beast’, right?”

  Cowl’s eyes narrowed. He was surprised she would know that. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “I did a little research last night,” she said, shifting to a more conversational approach. “Found out you guys used to be known as Gravestone. Right? And apparently you were getting nowhere fast. Then one day you gave yourself and the band a new name and, like magic, you become a phenomenon over night. That’s pretty amazing. How’d that happen?”

  Cowl wiped a sweaty palm on his robe and shifted uncomfortably. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “How’d you come up with the name, Mega Therion?”

  “Read it somewhere, I guess.”

  “Lot of guesses,” Kane said.

  “Let me try a guess,” Ravenwood said. “I’m guessing you have a bit of an obsession with Aleister Crowley, right?”

  Cowl shrugged. “I know a little about him. I wouldn’t call it an obsession.”

  Ravenwood reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out the flyer on the back of which she’d figured out the Crowley anagram. She handed it to Cowl.

  He looked genuinely puzzled. “What the hell is this?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what? What is this?”

  Ravenwood glanced at Kane and back to Cowl. She could see he had no idea what he was looking at. “It’s an anagram. Your name is an anagram for ‘Crowley’. You didn’t know that?”

  Cowl stared at the names on the paper. “How the hell did you…?

  “Not how did I,” she said. “How did you?”

  He was still at a loss. “I didn’t. Seriously, I don’t know how––”

  “Well,” she said, “it’s a hell of a coincidence, then, don’t you think?”

  Cowl didn’t know what to think. His stomach was twisting into a Gordian Knot. “Yeah. I guess it is, because I––”

  “So, if you didn’t know this, then how did you happen come up with the name, ‘Rye Cowl’?”

  Cowl’s discomfort was turning to agitation. He didn’t like being backed into a corner. “What difference does it make? What does any of this have to do with that dead preacher?”

  Kane took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Cowl. “Answer the question.”

  Ravenwood stood up. “No, that’s okay. I think we’re done for now.”

  Kane looked at her. “What?”

  “Unless you have something else you want to ask him.”

  Kane thought about it and realized he really didn’t have any more questions. He just didn’t like the guy and was enjoying watching him squirm. He gave Cowl a long, intimidating stare before backing away. “All right,” he said. “But we’ll be back.”

  Cowl sneered. “What for?”

  Kane paused at the front door. “Call it a premonition. You know. Magick?”

  CHAPTER 25

  One Hour Later…

  Kane’s Office

  “So,” Kane said, “are you going to tell me why you hesitated at the foot of the stairs with an odd look on your face?”

  Ravenwood had been waiting for the question. “What––you mean at Cowl’s place?”

  “Yeah. What was that all about?”

  “If I told you I sensed a presence, would you believe me?”

  “I’m about ready to believe almost anything anymore. I’m assuming you don’t mean another person. So what do you mean by a presence? Are we talking ghosts now? Because I’ll tell you what. If there was ever a place where ghosts would be hanging out it would be that place.”

  “No, not a ghost. Or, at least, not exactly. I’ve been in haunted buildings before. I know what that kind of presence feels like. This was different, somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  Kane filled two cups with coffee and handed one to her. “So, is this another one of those things you have a nose for?”

  “Sort of. It’s a gift I guess I inherited from my mother. If you can call that a gift. Don’t ask. Long story. But it is one of the reasons I was assigned to the A.P.U.”

  “You mean you’re like that kid in the movie. You see dead people.”

  The grin on her face was more from embarrassment than amusement. “No. I don’t see dead people. But I can sense what you might call other-worldly entities.”

  “Other-worldly. So, like, ghosts.”

  “Darker things. Demonic. I sensed something like that at Cowl’s place, like it was waiting at the top of the stairs.”

  Kane leaned back in his chair and stared at her for several moments. Just a couple of weeks ago he thought she was a nut case who, by some cosmic fluke in the natural order, somehow managed to become an F.B.I. agent. Now he was beginning to change his mind. Worse yet, he was even beginning to like her and that bothered him more than the idea that she could sense the presence of demons. “So,” he said, “you think––”

  “––that’s what opened the door?”

  “Oh, so now you’re a mind reader, too?”

  “No, I just knew what you were thinking.” She grinned. “You know what I mean.”

  “So you’re not a mind reader.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not one of my talents.”

  “Good thing. I’d be getting real uncomfortable here if I thought you could read my mind.”

  “Not sure I’d want to.” That wasn’t quite true. Over the past couple weeks she’d sensed there was something going on in his head that he wasn’t telling her. “But, yes, I think that presence, whatever it is, opened the door. Something is going on in that house. I don’t know what it is but I think Cowl knows a lot more than he let on.”

  Kane was just about to voice his agreement when Wheeler peeked his head in the door. “Come on in,” Kane said. “Grab a chair. What have you got?”

  Wheeler dragged a chair over next to Ravenwood. “Me and Moreno had a little sit-down with the boys in the band.”

  “And––?”

  “And I think we can scratch them off the list. They’re just kids having a good time making tons of money. That music they play? They don’t take any of that stuff seriously. All that devil crap and stuff, I mean. They’re just really good at what they do. It’s all show.”

  Ravenwood took a sip of coffee. “Ever see that movie, ‘The Usual Suspects’?”

  Wheeler nodded.

  “Remember the line that went something like ‘the greatest trick the Devil ever came up with was convincing people he doesn’t exist’?”

  CHAPTER 26

  Three Months Earlier…

  The Transformation

  Cowl sat cross-legged on the floor, at the center of the Seal with the urn in his lap. He was groggy, emotionally and physically drained from the previous eight days of grueling initiation. His naked body shivered beneath the hooded robe.

  The Messenger stood towering over him just outside the perimeter of the great Seal. He spoke solemnly but urgently. “The time has come to receive the Beast.” He stretched his arms out and cupped his hands together as if he were holding something. Then he uttered three words. “Meshadah mahranah abion.” The words themselves seemed to cause a momentary disturbance that vibrated the entire room.

  Instantly, a small glass vial containing a blue liquid appeared on the floor in front of Cowl. Under normal circumstances Cowl would have been astonished at such a trick but now he was far too spent to register much of a response at
all. He stared blankly at the object for a moment, then reached for it. Holding it in one hand, he tipped it gently back and forth and looked up at the Messenger as if to ask, ‘what is this?’

  “For our purposes,” the Messenger said, “think of it as the water of life, the elixir of resurrection. That’s really all you need to know. Now, remove the stopper and pour the contents into the urn.”

  A soft crackling sound bubbled up out of the urn as Cowl emptied the liquid into it. The urn became warm to the touch and an inky blue mist rose up out of it, filling the room with the thick, stifling fragrance of Jasmine. He knew what he had to do next. The nine days of initiation had come to this. The moment had arrived.

  Cowl stood up, removed his robe and let it slip to the floor. Completely naked, he held the urn firmly in his hands and glanced at the Messenger.

  The Messenger nodded.

  Cowl raised the urn up over his head. “Akaylah sutum rasham!”

  With that, he closed his eyes, brought the urn to his lips and tipped it back slowly. The elixir and the ash had congealed into a bitter, thick, oily substance that now slithered down his throat like a living thing.

  As the last drop of the vile fluid slid from the lip of the urn onto his waiting tongue, his eyes rolled back into his head, his body went rigid, then shuddered. His knees gave out, he went limp and slumped to the floor. A brief, weak moan escaped from his lips. Then everything went black.

  Somewhere, deep in the shadows of some ancient invisible underworld––populated by demons and hordes of abominations of indescribable horror––the essence of the man the world once knew as Aleister Crowley began its ascent toward its long awaited host.

  A moment later, Cowl’s body sprang to life, reanimated by some unseen force, eyes wide-open, alert. He maneuvered his legs into position and rose to his feet with the awkward grace of a newborn calf. He found his footing, straightened his back and scanned the room. The essence of Crowley was observing his surroundings for the first time. Lowering his eyes, he examined his youthful body. With an approving smile, he turned to the Messenger. “Well done,” he said. “Your services will no longer be required. Simple as that.”