The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  TEN

  THEN

  The room was moving. Though there were no windows to show its motion, Annie could feel the momentum as it rocketed forward. Guts twisting, she groped for something to hold on to, but the small space was empty, nothing but six joined sides. These were already shaking, the floorboards rattling, a spider web of ever-widening cracks spreading across the walls. The ceiling began to buckle, raining down fist-sized chunks of heavy plaster and choking dust. Through the cracks she could see light streaming past, mad patterns forming in the filmy air, against the disintegrating backdrop of the room. Splinters pierced her bare feet as the rotting floor-planks bowed and split; nails sprang up in clouds of rust, impaling falling wads of debris in brutal union.

  In spite of all this Annie found herself crouched, listening. Though the wind screamed through the crumbling walls and made the floorboards hammer and crack, she could hear a sort of echo. The room was growing near to something, and fast. She caught glimpses of it as she drew closer, a vast whiteness that seemed angled, faceted into unrecognizable shapes. It grew both dark and bright, anything that wasn't outside vanishing into shadow. Faster now, falling instead of flying, she tried to cry out but there was no air. The white filled the world around her, streaming through the shack-like structure, burning away the last scraps of her clothing. She could see spires, chasms, a wall that filled the world.

  The room exploded. Annie waited for pain but none came. She was no longer moving, instead hanging above the shifting plane. No, not shifting; it was her perspective that was changing, attempting to compensate for the impossible terrain that unfolded below her. It was a city, a song, a question solved by a glimpse of the other side. And then she was standing, looking through a transparent floor. Sudden dread filled her, left her unwilling to look up at what she knew would be waiting there.

  "ANNIE."

  She did scream then, her lungs endless bellows that poured forth a shrill and singular note. He rose up before her, hands out in supplication, eyes fired black in his scrying. His lips chewed her name; they were charred testaments to once having lived, dead leather that writhed in the grimy matted beard. Only his curious head-piece had any color, a deep, rich red that ran down his neck, his back, in rivulets across the floor as he drifted closer. He said something more but Annie was already waking up. He faded by half but reached out, laid his hand across her left shoulder. She felt a flash of pain, heard him howl as he vanished in a blaze of white.

  Annie opened her eyes. To her relief the room was not moving, filled instead with the mellow glow of her bedside lamp. The manor was quiet. She'd fallen asleep reading, holding the book in her hands; while she'd dozed it had closed, revealing the grimy photo upon the back cover. She pushed the book aside, hurried to the bathroom. From the corner of the bed the image of Clautney Iris stared skyward, the black and white photo now inexplicably tinted a scarlet red.

  ~*~

  Morning found Annie wandering the halls. The dream had shaken her, left her unable to sleep. She knew it was the book; from the moment she'd begun reading it she'd been caught up in its spell, captivated by its every line. It was both poetry and scripture, secret and revelation. There was a burning truth to it, a savage wisdom in a quest for resolution. It sought her, made her question all she thought she'd known before, and she was amazed to realize how much fear had shaped her perspective.

  Throughout her entire life Annie had avoided experience, unwilling to part with the chill comfort her ignorance imbued. She put distance between herself and much of the world, denying its existence. Now Annie knew that she'd been hiding only from herself. She could now see through the fragile veil of illusion she had knit to hide behind. Life was violent, sexual, and no matter how she might wish otherwise, one area where none were spared. Compassion, she realized, was her vice, innocence the caul she must chew through to be truly free.

  She had been analyzing the dream. The terror of the night before abated somewhat in the cold light of dawn and Annie found she was able to think rationally now. Obviously it had been a metaphor for discovering her inner truths. Clautney Iris had written that there would be many ordeals on the path to enlightenment. His appearance in the dream was simply a sign of her own inner wisdom coming forward to confront her. At least that's what she hoped it meant.

  She found herself on the manor's third floor. The dusty rug muffled her footsteps, made her creep along to preserve the quiet. Painted eyes followed her as she passed the open rooms, watched mutely as she made her way to the window at the end of the hall. She found she was growing hungry, her nervous energy finally beginning to ebb, and that was when she saw him. "James?"

  He turned, smiled warmly. "Annie. How are you?" He leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek.

  "How long have you been back?" she asked, curious.

  "I just got in last night, actually. I was visiting my Uncle Ted in New York. You know, giving him the assurance civility still reigned here, and we haven't devolved into a clan of decadent anarchists. At least,” he added with a wink, “not yet."

  Annie smiled, unsure. She'd never been in the room he'd just exited. Ashton's regular quarters were on the first floor, at the back of the manor.

  "So why are you wandering these lonely halls?" he asked, giving voice to her own question.

  "I, uh, had a weird dream and couldn't get back to sleep. I thought I'd go for a walk; the manor is big enough to do that without having to go outside."

  Ashton smiled. "Yes, sometimes it surprises even me." He did not elaborate, instead taking her by the arm. "Have you had breakfast?" he asked, smiling.

  "No, not yet."

  "Please. Join me."

  She bowed, following Ashton as he led her downstairs.

  NOW

  Baxter took a deep breath, then threw himself again against the glass of the mirror. There was a wet sound, a malefic rending of flesh and muscle that filled his ears. He felt it drag through him, a rubbery thrum as he was wrenched forward screaming into this other world. How long it took he could not say; Time ceased to have meaning here, had perhaps stopped entirely in this beshadowed place. He appeared to be in a corridor but its boundaries were dim, undefined. Lacking any sort of recognizable form Baxter nonetheless possessed a sort of locomotion. He willed himself forward, towards the row of openings before him. The view through them was distorted, unrecognizable. Well, he'd just have to go on memory. Orienting himself he took a left against his better judgment. If he was in here then this was the reflection, all of it backwards. Catching his breath he began to count: Three. Two. One. Baxter stepped through.

  "Where in the Hell have you been?" Zak asked, looking up from his laptop.

  Wordlessly, Baxter collapsed onto the floor of the library. He blacked out, woke moments later to his friend's worried face.

  "Baxter! Are you all right?"

  Baxter sat up, immediately regretting it. Vertigo overwhelmed him, the room spinning in on his head, falling up and away from him with a sickening disregard for physics. "Uhhh. I feel…urghhh!" Baxter began to retch, his guts twisting in angry knots. Zak looked on helplessly as his friend convulsed, emptying the liquid content of his stomach into a nearby waste-bin. All he could do was sit and wait it out, offering a towel at what seemed to be the end of the spasm. Baxter took it gladly, wiped the sweat from his face. He sat up, leaning against the couch. "Oh, man. That sucked."

  Zak nodded. "I can imagine."

  Baxter drew his knees close to his body, tried to stop shivering. He grabbed a nearby blanket and wrapped himself tightly. Long moments passed, as he sat with his eyes closed.

  "Glad to see you made it," Zak commented at last. "I was beginning to worry."

  "It was a lot easier when I first leaned how. Guess I'm getting too old for this shit," Baxter said, ribs grinding again. "What did I miss?"

  "Nothing. You know there can't be a party without you."

  Baxter smiled in spite of himself. "Aw, now I feel all warm inside. It's nice to know I'm wanted." />
  Zak began without further pleasantries. "Everybody was brought into the library. Our host was there, claiming we failed seven years ago, that the Gate to the other side remains open. Ashton says that Paq'q has been feeding through this portal, strengthening His connection to our plane, and consuming everything in the process."

  Baxter only shrugged, so Zak pressed on. "The manor itself seems to be… well, dying, for lack of a better word. You remember what it was like before. Even though no one actually lived here the place was pristine, like a god-damn museum. Seven years later and it's suddenly falling apart? It makes no sense unless you believe Ashton. Corruption has taken root here, has been sucking this place dry."

  This was undeniable, the evidence all too clear. The two fell silent, pondering the situation.

  "Ashton… paid me a visit," Baxter finally volunteered haltingly.

  "Really? What did he have to say?"

  "Well, after I arrived Metathias stuck me up in my old room. Old habits die hard, fortunately. I was in there for a while, just kind of stewing in my own juices. Finally Ashton showed up. He gave me the same rap he gave you, told me I'd see everyone at breakfast tomorrow. Until then I was to be a good boy and stay in my room."

  "That's it?"

  "Well, he did give me a scare…"

  Zak leaned forward, questioningly. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

  "You mean you haven't seen him?" Baxter asked, surprised. Zak shook his head.

  "No. He stayed in the shadows the whole time he had us in the library. Why?"

  Baxter swallowed hard."He was..." Baxter trailed off but Zak kept at him.

  "What? What?"

  There was a sound just then, a loud thud from somewhere within the manor's walls. The two men stopped, frozen with fear. They listened but it was already over, swallowed up in the hush. Baxter was shaking again, or perhaps simply had never stopped in the first place. Whatever the case the two remained quiet for some time, simply listening. When they began to speak their words were low, so that the walls themselves strained to hear. They talked into the early hours, until exhaustion set in. Baxter rose. "I'd better go now."

  "How'd you know to find me here, in the library? You took one hell of a chance."

  Baxter shrugged. "Well, I figured you wouldn't be able to use your old room on the second floor on account of…" Baxter made it a point of not looking at the wheelchair and Zak nodded, understanding. "Besides, with everything that's happened up until now it only made sense Ashton would stick you in here. He's a stickler for history, for ceremony. A weakness."

  Zak nodded. "How are you getting back to your room?"

  Baxter smiled sadly. "The way I came in, in afraid." Baxter removed a small white candle from the bookshelf, lighting it with a long wooden match.

  "You've gotta be kidding!" Zak exploded. "Going through there nearly killed you the last time. What makes you think you can do it again?"

  "Because I have to." And it would be easier this time, Baxter knew. Somehow he'd learned from his last experience, felt he understood how not to do it now. Baxter left his friend, walked over to the mirror and placed the candle at its base. He gazed into the reflection and pinched the small cloth pouch, quickly reciting the unusual formula. After long moments Baxter waved, then stepped through the glass effortlessly, leaving Zachary alone in the gloomy library.

  "Godspeed, Baxter."

  ~*~

  There was something in there with him. Baxter swam forward fearful, suddenly unsure of his bearings. The far-off roar had stunned him, left him unsure as to which path of egress was his own. As before it was impossible to tell where any of those shimmering rectangles actually led without having kept track. The roar came again, much closer this time; Baxter knew had had a moment, perhaps two to make his decision. He applied a tried and true magical formula. "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe!" Baxter dove forward, falling head-first into his room. His momentary relief evaporated, however, when he glanced back into the mirror.

  Something was coming for him. Streaking through the void, it hurtled towards the opening in the mirror with the speed of thought. In desperation Baxter lashed out but his heel merely glanced off the trembling pane. He kicked again and again, a single crack bisecting the glass just as the roar reached its peak. The mirror shattered all around him then, the thing slamming against the now-closed border. Baxter felt the wall tremble but it held, as streamers of ichor and grue sprayed in a rain of silver glass throughout the room. He felt it shred his clothing, lacerate his flesh in a hundred places. But he'd made it. Panting, Baxter lay on the floor in a pool of his gathering blood and began to laugh. He'd made it.

  ~*~

  It was Metathias who'd tended to him, Baxter discovered later. The old man had found him on the bedroom floor, and took it upon himself to stop the flow of blood. The damage wasn't as bad as Baxter had initially thought; most of his wounds were superficial and easily-dressed. He did have a few deeper cuts, but these had been cleaned and stitched by the time he regained consciousness.

  Baxter noted his bedroom door was now open and laughed. Familiar morning smells greeted him, a Sunday breakfast with all the trimmings. He hobbled painfully down the warped stair, making his way to the dining room. "Morning, everybody!"

  The five of them were clearly shocked. Annie gasped when she saw his condition, rising from her place at the table. Adam caught her arm, glaring at Baxter with a mixture of admiration and disgust. Erica went to him when Annie didn't, taking his trembling arm. "Baxter! What the hell happened to you?"

  "I flew coach."

  Erica had to smile. In spite of everything, Baxter was still a smart-ass. She led him to a seat at the table. Baxter sat casually, trying not to show just how much pain he was in, but the grinding of his spine brought an uncontrollable wince to his face. "Bloody Mary, please."

  The serving-woman looked at him with flat eyes, uncomprehending. "Bloody...?"

  "Er, never mind. Just bring wine."

  This word she understood, and she scuttled off. Baxter busied himself buttering a triangle of toast, unsure of what to say next. Annie leaned forward in her chair. "We didn't think you were going to make it."

  Baxter did not meet her gaze. "Neither did I," Baxter replied truthfully. He did not elaborate.

  "You ran. You're a coward." Everyone looked at Adam.

  "Well, sure," Baxter conceded, leaning on one elbow, "but I came back."

  Chloe was clearly still quite pissed. She glared at him from across the table, pinning him like a bug. "Why, Baxter?" Her words chilled the room, but Baxter stayed the course.

  "Loose ends, Sister. That's all." He crunched his toast. Even saturated with butter it was oddly flavorless. Ashton was clearly skimping these days.

  "So where is Himself?" Baxter asked. He drew five blank stares; obviously they were all wondering the same thing. The hands of the massive grandfather clock in the corner of the room did not move, stranded where they had stopped years before. The outside light was dull, even; while he assumed it was morning Baxter realized it could be any time of the day. It was disorienting and he felt his stomach begin to flip his toast around, the atmosphere of the place already wearing on him. Where was that wine?

  "So, how has everybody been?" Erica asked. Given the circumstances it was an astonishing question to ask and Baxter loved her for it. She was smiling: she actually wanted to know. Unfortunately, no one seemed willing to bite. "Annie?"

  Annie looked at Erica. "My life has been a nightmare." She felt no need to elaborate.

  "Zak?"

  Zak just shook his head, looking down into his uneaten breakfast. Zero for two, Erica pressed gamely on. "Chloe? Adam?" Neither spoke, acting as if the question had not been asked. Erica's smile shifted slightly, as she remembered just who she was speaking to. She turned to Baxter; one glance and the two broke up. It was brash laughter, harsh at their own expense.

  "How can you laugh at this?" Annie hissed, suddenly livid. "How can you laugh?"

&n
bsp; This only spurred the two on, the absurdity of the situation magnifying their emotions tenfold. Baxter cackled like a loon, his eyes tearing, his ribs grinding together. Erica tried to compose herself, looked at the others and lost it all over again. Chloe seethed wordlessly. Adam chewed his food as if it were Baxter's face. Annie was chalk-white, trembling with some unknown emotion. Baxter glanced over and noticed Zak had joined them, chuckling to himself. How could they not laugh, Baxter wondered, his sides now walls of agony.

  "Good morning." All heads turned, suddenly silent. The six watched as Ashton strolled into the room. He, too, was smiling. "It's good to hear laughter in the old place again," he said, taking his seat at the end of the table. "If you don't mind my asking, what was so funny?"

  Erica looked at Baxter, who was still trying to catch his breath. "I was asking everyone how they've been since…" Erica swallowed, looking at their host, "since the last time we were together."

  "Ah." Ashton carefully unfolded his napkin. He said nothing more, busying himself with his morning ritual. Annie watched him nervously from the other end of the table. Baxter could understand why, but decided to let the issue hang for the moment.

  "So how have you been, buddy?" he asked Ashton acerbically. "You look… well."

  "Thank you for asking, Baxter," Ashton replied breezily. "I feel well."

  "Huh. Well, I just thought I'd ask. You know, considering how things ended and all."

  Ashton was not ruffled. "They ended for you, Baxter. Not for me." Before Baxter could reply Ashton changed the subject. "How have you been, Erica?"

  "Pretty good, all things considered. I'm a social worker now. I deal with kids, mostly…"

  "How did you get a job working with kids?" Annie asked bitterly. It wasn't a question as much as a pointed stick. Erica blinked, unsure how to respond.

  "What do you mean?"