This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of Down in the Dirt magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
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Henry stopped, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked around at what he had accomplished. The attic was about half-cleaned, and he decided he had done enough to take a break with minimal chance of incurring his mother’s wrath. He was thirsty, so he went to find the canteen he had brought up with him. The water inside was still cold, and he gulped it down quickly without pausing for breath. He sat on an old chest tucked away in the corner, wishing it were not so hot in the dusty room. He looked for something to hold his attention while he rested. He noticed a stack of books just opposite his position and walked over to see if any of them might be worth reading. He was disappointed with his find. Most of them were books on computer software, relics left behind after his father’s disappearance. He continued his search and was rewarded by a book on the bottom of the stack.
It was bound by thick leather and, as far as Henry could tell, was quite old. The front bore odd markings, eight total, which seemed to be etched into the book rather than printed. There was no title that Henry could see, so he flipped it over looking for the description of its contents. The back was even stranger than the front. He found no text or markings of any kind on the back, and it was smoother than a book fresh off the press. This was quite a contrast to the front, which bore nicks and small cuts from years of use and storage. His fingers seemed to tingle as he held the book, and he had just begun to flip through its strange pages when his mother’s voice called to him from down the stairs.
He rushed down to see what she wanted, knowing that to call back would be to cause him pain. He was still sweating when he found her sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper scattered in front of her. It was times like this, in brief moments of peace, that he noticed how much they were alike. They were both thin with hawkish faces and deep brown hair, and they both possessed deep green eyes. They were tall people, though Henry’s frame did not extended as far as his mother’s; he had inherited her height, but he did not share her specifics such as long arms and long fingers. There were other differences that reflected their personalities rather than any physical characteristics. For instance, his mother’s countenance bore many wrinkles and markings reminiscent of a life of constant frowns and anger. Henry possessed a happy, shining face, and he had been told on several occasions that his smile had been donated to him from a cherub. His mother glared up from her paper. He realized he was smiling at her and hastily rearranged his expression to one of respect.
“Yes, mother,” he said politely, holding his head down.
“Your nasty little friend just called here, the fat one,” she said, daring him to defend his friend. When he did not, she continued, “He asked if you could go over to his house and play.”
Henry didn’t dare look hopeful; there was as good a chance as not that he would be allowed to go, but if he seemed too excited to go out, his mother would surely force him to stay home. He was careful to avoid her eyes as he asked, “Can I go?”
Rage covered his mother’s face, and she stood, knocking the table back as she rose. “Don’t you dare ask me that, you ungrateful whelp!” she yelled, “I’ll let you know whether or not you can go, but I tell you; you have a larger chance of going if you show a little respect. I was going to let you, but now, I think your time might be better spent cleaning out the garage as well. Tell me, have you even finished cleaning out the attic, or have you been up there day dreaming again? Don’t lie to me boy; you know I’ll go look.”
Henry had no thoughts of lying to his mother; he knew that would only make his situation worse. “No, ma’am,” he replied, his voice meek, “but I’ve got all weekend and I’m almost done. I could finish it tomorrow.”
He regretted saying it as soon as he finished talking. His mother turned red and swelled with fury as she bellowed, “You’ll finish it now, you lazy shit. Go on, get your ass upstairs and get back to work.” Henry started to walk away, but his mother wasn’t finished with him yet. “Where are you going? You get back here and listen to me when I speak to you.”
His mother continued to rain abuse on him, but Henry was too concerned with controlling the tears that were threatening to fall. His mother seemed both offended and delighted when she made him cry, and he did not want to give her the satisfaction. Finally, the crash of her wooden spoon on his head brought him back into the conversation. “Well,” his mother was saying, “answer me! What do you have there?”
Henry looked down and was surprised to find that he had carried the book downstairs with him. He held it out to his mother as he said, “It’s just an old book I found with some of dad’s things.” His mother said nothing, and Henry looked up to see if she had heard him.
His mother’s face was changing, the anger receding from it like a beaten dog from its master. The red covering her countenance was slowly dwindling away and being replaced by supernatural paleness. Her mouth opened as she tried to form words but found none. After a moment, she smiled. It looked so unnatural on her face that Henry was convinced she had finally gone crazy. When she spoke, he knew something was wrong.
“I guess there’s no harm in letting you off this once,” her voice dripped with insincerity. “Go on. Put that book back where you found it, and forget about it. Go play with your friend, but be sure to be home before dark.”
Henry nodded and thanked his mother, already moving toward the stairs. However, when he got to the second floor, he headed toward his room and stuffed the book into his backpack. He rushed down the stairs and out the door before his mother could question why he had his bag with him on a Friday night.
A couple of hours later, Henry and his best friend, David, were sitting in the tree house in the woods behind David’s home. It swayed with the wind, but the boys had been here often enough to know it would not fall down around them. Henry held the book out and explained how he had found it and his mother’s weird aversion to it. David stared at it, his eyes growing more panic-stricken with each passing moment.
“You’re not seriously planning on reading that old thing are you?” David asked, sounding genuinely worried.
“Why? You’re not scared are you?” Henry taunted playfully. “It’s just a book.”
“Yeah, well, you can say what you want about it, but if it scared your mom so bad, I don’t think we should mess with it. It scares me too,” he shuddered as he spoke.
“Don’t be such a whimp. Who do you know who’s been hurt by a book?”
“It’s not the book that scares me. It’s what might come out of it. I’ve seen those ghost-hunter shows on TV, and they seem real enough. How do you know this isn’t like those shows?”
Henry laughed to himself at this display of cowardice, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “David, come on,” he began, “you’ve watched special features on DVDs, right? The ones with the special effects?” David nodded as Henry continued. “Well, that’s the same way they do those shows. They aren’t real, and neither is this book.”
“I dunno, Henry. It looks real enough to me,” David said, unconvinced.
“Well, it’s not. I tell you what; we can wait to read it until tomorrow. I’ll go home and put a cross on it, and then we’ll know for sure.”
“Okay,” David agreed. He knew as well as anyone that a cross would destroy anything evil. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He got up and headed toward the ladder, trying to put as much space as possible between himself and the book. His head had just disappeared through the trap door when he heard his name called. “Yeah?” he answered.
“Bring all the candles you can find.”
The sound of David’s feet on the dirt trail beneath the tree brought Henry out of a trance. He smiled to himself, savoring the anticipation that had consumed him since finding the book. A sigh much too heavy for a boy of fifteen escaped his lips as he reached for the worn book.
Henry thought he had done well convincing David the book was harmless, especially since he was not entirely sure of the fact. The truth was, every time he placed his hand upon it, he felt a tingle of power. It seemed to converge on him, filling him until it became one with his very essence. Henry hesitated as his hand moved once more to the cover. He could sense the power building within him and believed that it could only be harvested by the reading of the book’s dusty pages. The cover had just begun to separate from the thick parchment when the red-orange glare of the setting sun crossed Henry’s eyes. He slammed the book shut and crammed it hastily into his bag. As soon as he hit the dirt he began to run, desperately hoping his mother had lost track of time.
It was a stupid thought, a voice inside his head told him. He approached the house to find his mother standing before it, arms crossed with the dreaded wooden spoon held in one hand. Her face was contorted with fury, and she shook from it.
“Where on earth have you been?” she asked her voice full of malice, “I don’t know when I’ve been more worried.”
Henry did not know why, but he looked into his mother’s menacing eyes and said, “Seems to me that you don’t know a lot.”
The reaction was immediate and predictable. His mother swung the spoon down onto the top of his head, the wood making a dull crack as it struck. Henry pushed past her, desperate to get away from the cursing, flailing thing that was his mother. He made for the stairs and the solace of his bedroom, but she cornered him at the top of the landing.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, you little shit?” she bellowed in rage, hitting him repeatedly with her spoon, “You just stand there and take it like the worthless bastard you are.”
Again, Henry didn’t know what happened. One second, he was standing there fighting back the inevitable tears and trying to ignore the pain, and the next he found himself pushing out, watching as his mother sought to maintain her balance. She lost the fight and toppled down the stairs. Henry continued to stare; she fell with a resounding snap as the base of her neck separated from her spine. Her body was limp as she tumbled down the staircase to land, broken, at its base, her eyes glazed over.
“M-m-mom?” the word came out of his mouth as a beg. He hoped for an answer despite the angles in which she lay. He stared at his hands and then at his mother’s body and back again. Tears began to well up in his eyes and he sat down heavily, letting them cascade down his cheeks.
When he next opened his eyes, he found himself surrounded by fog, the thick mist closing in on him. His breath grew forced and ragged, allowing him only enough air to realize that he was going to die in this unknown place. He pulled in all the oxygen that could fit into his lungs and screamed. Spots swam before his eyes; his head grew lighter than the surrounding mist. “Please,” he croaked as he fell to his knees, “Someone. Help.” Amazingly, the spots began to clear, and he felt himself being pulled to his feet by some invisible force. He swayed as a shadow swirled through the mist. It walked closer, the fog parting before it like a veil, and stopped before Henry. He pulled back from it slightly, but the creature held his gaze.
“Look,” its voice crackled like flame, “Gaze upon me that you might know me, your master.”
Henry looked up at the beast, his gaze unhesitant. Its skin was brown in color and consisted of a series of tightly knit scales. Its flesh hung tight to its body, reminding Henry of the anorexic. He knew this to be a trap, for anyone could see this was a being of power. His eyes traveled up its body, taking note of the vicious claws, and he was amazed to find its otherwise naked body covered by a deep scarlet cape.
Not a cape, thought Henry, wings.
They were folded and reached from the base of its neck to just below the creature’s calves. The head of the beast was a work of horrid beauty. Huge, ram-like horns circled down behind its head, curling to a point near its cheekbones. Its mouth protruded slightly, similar to a cat. Catching sight of Henry’s gaze, it opened its mouth to show three separate rows of teeth pointed in an endless array of angles. Henry looked the beast in the eyes and saw himself in them. The creature laughed to itself, knowing that the boy saw only his reflection and not the screaming faces of the souls that resided within, forever trapped in its gaze.
“Do you find my form pleasing?” the beast asked its newly acquired servant.
“Yes, my Lord,” the boy answered as he bowed before it.
Henry jerked awake but remained, for a time, lying in bed with his eyes closed trying to remember the sweet dream that had left him feeling so refreshed. It had something to do with a voice, pure and majestic. He sat on the side of his bed and smiled as he noticed the book on his table. He dressed quickly, anxious to begin the day. Henry skipped out of the room, grabbing the book off the table as he passed. Thoughts of breakfast crossed his mind as he headed toward the stairs, and he wondered if his mother would be in a good enough humor to actually fix something to eat. He bounded down the stairs, two at a time, and hopped over the dead woman at the base of the stairwell. In a receding part of his mind, he recognized the woman.
“Well,” he said to himself, “guess that means cereal.” He hummed as he searched the kitchen for a clean bowl. After eating, he ran about the house gathering the materials he would need later that night. He tracked down most of the necessary items and found decent substitutes for those few ingredients that were not available to him. He walked swiftly out the door and headed in the direction of the tree house. When he arrived, he was surprised to find David pacing from wall to wall inside the small building.
“You’re not supposed to be here yet,” Henry told the larger boy.
“Well, I was tired of waiting around the house,” David defended himself, “I had horrible dreams last night.” When Henry said nothing, David continued, “I really don’t think we should do this.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Henry mocked, “We should stop because the poor little baby had a nightmare. Please! Stop sniveling; it makes me sick. Did you at least bring the candles?”
“I’ve got them right here,” he said holding up a grocery sack filled with objects of various sizes, “You don’t have to be such an ass.”
Henry said nothing, and silence descended on the pair as Henry opened his bag. He pulled the book from within and set it reverently on the small table under the window. He then began to pull out the remainder of the contents and tossed them onto the table beside the book. David’s fear swelled as he looked at the items: a thick piece of chalk, a large pot, a bulging paper bag, lighter fluid complete with a small lighter, several different herbs carefully wrapped in cellophane, and a large kitchen knife.
David tore his gaze away from the table to look at his friend, terror shaking his voice as he said, “What is it we’re gonna be doing exactly?”
“Stop worrying about it. I promise it will be worth it,” Henry answered as he reached for the chalk. A vicious glint covered his eyes as he knelt and said, “Just be sure to stay out of my way while I work.”
David watched as his friend began to draw on the wooden planks. Henry moved slowly, careful to draw one large, perfect circle. His hand moved unceasingly, the chalk never leaving the floor, and his speed built as he completed a smaller circle inside the large one, six inches separating the two. Henry knelt in the center of his dual circle and began to draw strange symbols between them. David continued to stare dumbstruck as his friend completed the eighth and final symbol. When it was finished, Henry crouched in the center and drew a pentagram inside the smaller circle, making sure that each point touched the ring around it. He stood up and stared down at his work. He nodded to himself and stepped out the circle, careful to make it over the design. In a different time, David would have been impressed by Henry’s leap, for the drawing was over six feet in diameter.
David, feeling it was time he got some answers, said, “What is tha . . .”
“Be quiet, you fool!” Henry responded, his eyes furious. He looked up and, seeing David, forced kindness into his expression. “Sorry, just give me a minute, and I’ll explain everything.”
David looked at his friend, wondering if this was the same person he had left the day before. He moved farther into the corner of his tree house, his eyes glancing about for an escape. He sat down, legs folded against his body, and attempted to control his shaking.
By the time David was able to sit still, Henry had set the pot on the floor a short distance from the strange drawing. He picked up the brown bag and poured out charcoal, arranging it in a pyramid inside the pot. After dousing it with lighter fluid, Henry lit it, crossed over to the table, and opened the book. His lips moved as he read to himself, and by the time he was content with the passage, the flame had died down leaving the coals to burn.
Henry collected the packs of cellophane and knelt by the pot. He took one of the packages and opened it, grabbing a bit between his forefinger and thumb. He tossed it gently onto the coals as he intoned, “Liberate te ex infernis.” A thick curl of smoke was carried out of the pot as the plant met the embers. He performed this ritual seven times, once for each herb. After he had finished, he looked up and noticed David. At the sight of his friend, Henry’s face grew worried. “You can’t be there,” he cried desperately, ‘Quickly, into the circle! It’s the only place you’ll be safe.”
David thought that unlikely, but Henry had never before lied to him. David made his way, as fast as he could, through the thickening smoke into the circle. He stood there trembling, wishing he could force Henry to stop this madness. He could vaguely see Henry’s outline moving around the table. The smoke poured from the pot, and David was beginning to have difficulty drawing breath. He looked back toward the table but was unable to locate Henry. Thinking Henry had abandoned him, David made to escape the circle and the tree house but was stopped by the appearance of Henry’s face mere inches in front of his own. A stranger’s eyes glared from the familiar countenance. “Mortius ex vivo,” said the face as David felt the knife dance across his throat.
Henry watched with satisfaction as David’s body slumped to the floor and began convulsing. “The blood is the pathway,” he quoted aloud as he watched the blood spread across the floor. It pooled faster than he had anticipated, and he was forced to step back to prevent it from soaking through his shoes. He stared at the crumpled mass that was his friend, wondering how long it would take to start. Suddenly the smoke thinned and whirled within the circle, a model of a tornado. Henry stared at the center of the circle, waiting.
A moment passed before anything more happened. Without warning, thunder broke the peaceful air, and thick clouds blackened the sky that had been clear. Henry’s eyes never left the circle, and his vigilance was rewarded; two horns were beginning to protrude from the floor. Yes, Henry thought, come to me, my master. It came.
The demon stood up and looked about him, taking note of the pitiful human boy prostrating at its feet. Its eyes headed directly for the window, and it gazed out to the world beyond. Soon, it would not need this pitiful routine to feed. Soon, it would be able to roam the world at will. First, however, it needed pure souls. The demon glimpsed at the blood-covered floor and laughed to itself. It stepped through the blood, out of the circle, and grabbed the boy by his throat, its claws digging into the soft flesh.
“Master,” the boy begged, confused, “Master, I freed you. Master, please.”
“You have allowed me a momentary respite in this realm, mortal,” the demon growled, “and you’ve done well. You must not think that I will forsake you; in truth, I have a much greater service that you may perform.” It stared into the boy’s eyes, searching for the tiny spark of divinity within him. It shone through the demonic taint, and the demon coveted it. The boy’s soul screamed as it was wrenched from his body into the boundless void of the demon.
The demon looked longingly, one last time, out the window before sinking into its prison to wait for the day when it would be powerful enough to walk the world alone.
