The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  "Brother Nacht is busy preparing himself for the Ceremony tonight. You should be doing the same."

  "Damn it, Adam, I'm not fucking around! Something has happened to Baxter, a skin infection or something. He has to go to the hospital!"

  "Don't worry about Baxter. Worry about yourself." He looked down at her breasts and smiled salaciously. Standing up on the balls of her feet so he could get a good look Erica took the opportunity to reach behind her. Scooping up a heavy onyx statuette in her right hand she swung it forward with all of the force she could muster. It stuck Adam in the side of the skull with a brittle crunch and he collapsed, sprawling across the hallway floor. Momentum carrying her forward Erica caught herself against the door frame with her other hand. She stepped over Adam's prone form and tried the door. To her surprise it was unlocked.

  Cautiously she pushed it open.

  FOURTEEN

  THEN

  Baxter drove. Evening was coming on fast, stealing the sky and leaving little behind. Few stars shone, leaving a lone moon to brood above the greater range before him. He cursed himself for not leaving earlier, even though he knew that would have been impossible; the manor had been abuzz with activity all day, and Baxter was lucky to have left when he did. He'd told no one he was going, slipping out when the moment presented itself. After acquiring one of the cars from the garage, he sped off, following a slim hope.

  The highway was nearly deserted. Baxter strained to remember the day of the week, was embarrassed to realize he did not know. After nearly two months of decadence and madness in the manor, time had become an abstract. It was amazing how quickly it had happened. Not so long ago his life had been ruled by the clock, school enforcing a framework that no longer existed. The idea of going back grew more daunting by the day; Baxter simply wasn't ready to return to that world. How he would explain that to his professors and the financial aid office he did not know.

  After nearly missing his exit Baxter chided himself and ceased his pointless introspection. After the long slow turn around the slope the town of Tull came into view. Neon wore the night like a whore, a sad and garish corpse adorned with gold, orange and electric blue. He passed the fast-food tombs, the car dealerships and carpet surplus warehouse. To his right, the strip mall sat cold and empty, a sign that it was in fact Sunday. That could be a problem.

  To Baxter's surprise the little bar was not only open, but the parking lot was nearly full. He pulled in to the first space he could find, then quickly walked across the gravel lot. Even with the door closed, music could be heard blaring from within. Before he could change his mind, Baxter opened the door and stepped inside.

  The tiny building was packed. Feeling conspicuous, Baxter waded to the end of the bar. Unlike the last time he was here, there was a wait for service, which was fine. It gave Baxter a chance to scope out the room. Without trying to look too obvious, he scanned the crowd. Strangers wore faces that seemed oddly-familiar, bar-room archetypes who paid him no mind. They laughed over the rims of glasses, pointed and cursed at the grainy image upon the TV screen. Baxter marveled. It was perhaps the only bar in North American still without cable. And even though the image flipped and hissed with static, most everyone watched, unable to look away.

  Baxter ordered a draft he didn't want and paid with a crumpled five from the bottom of his pocket. He realized with amazement he'd spent less than ten dollars since leaving school two months ago and suddenly felt embarrassed and ashamed. James Ashton had given so freely, providing not only food and lodging, but a world of experience Baxter had never even imaged existed. For better or worse, Ashton had made him a part of something: in spite of their seeming differences, the young man had included Baxter where so many others had not, granting him a position in his Sacred Circle. And now Baxter was here, sneaking around behind his host's back (and using the man's own car, no less) in search of someone Ashton obviously held in very low regard, all that Baxter might ask a bunch of stupid questions. Betrayal? Perhaps. Only time would tell.

  Suddenly depressed, Baxter took his beer and drifted over to an empty spot along the side wall. He stood beside a busted video poker machine, the pixilated woman on the screen inviting him to take a chance and try her despite the OUT OF ORDER sign prominently displayed above. He ignored the pre-recorded come-ons, sipped his already flat beer and made a decision. Setting his glass on top of the machine Baxter began walking towards the exit. He nearly made it.

  ~*~

  The little car crept down the steep grade, lost in the shadows of the hillside.

  "Pull in here."

  Baxter did as he was directed, though not without apprehension. It was dark. Not the street-lit city darkness he'd grown up with, but down-home country dark, with only the stars in the sky and his headlights to show the way. Cautiously, Baxter steered the vehicle along the rutted lane, watching for deer or any other surprises that might be waiting. After breathless moments a small house came into view. No light burned within, but this was not unexpected as the building's sole resident was seated beside him. Shea smacked his lips in satisfaction as Baxter approached.

  "That's fine, boy. Just pull 'round back."

  Baxter pulled in behind the little two-story house and cut the engine. Following his passenger he exited the car, though not without first locking it. Making his way up the cinder path he wondered again if he'd made a mistake. Leaving the manor without telling anyone had been a risky thing to do. If the old man was truly crazy (as Ashton claimed) coming here alone was foolish, perhaps even suicidal. And yet, when Michael Shea had stopped him leaving the bar, Baxter had noted something in the man's eyes, a reflection of hope that he'd at last gotten through.

  "Glad you came lookin' for me. Saves me the trouble of climbin' that damn hill again."

  Shea fumbled with his keys in the blackness of the small porch. Alcohol was strong on his breath, a stale, overtly intimate odor. Baxter had been right about one thing; Shea could usually be found at the bar. He followed the old man into the shadowed recesses of his home.

  "Watch the cat," Shea said too late. A soft warmth rushed by then, a black and white flash of a feline darting past. It hissed as it did, a clawed paw just grazing Baxter's leg. He let the door swing closed, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Just as they did the overhead light flickered on, blinding him.

  "Excuse the mess." As well as his many social graces, Mr. Shea had a wonderful gift for the under-statement. Mess was far too minute a term for the sight which greeted Baxter as his vision cleared. Mountains of debris filled the narrow hall, perilous heaps piled nearly to the ceiling. File cabinets rested one on top of another, their metal flanks scratched and dented, the drawers packed full to bursting. Upon these were stacked books, magazines and periodicals sorted only so as not to topple and crush passers-by. Cautiously, Baxter followed his host into the house's interior, careful not to brush against any of the towering columns.

  He stepped into a brightly-lit space that may have once been considered the living room; this too was full, though slightly more orderly than the hall. Row after row of books filled the shelves, their titles suggestive of a dizzying array of subject matter: popular sciences shared space with old moldering Bibles, technical manuals and leather-bound copies of newspapers. In wonder Baxter noted volumes on such diverse subjects as anthropology, medical diagnosis and dream analysis, as well as a large section devoted to occult studies. He was surprised in spite of himself; while he'd figured Shea knew more than he let on, Baxter had not expected him to be so well read.

  "Sit down. I'll get ya a beer." Shea circumvented a large pile of boxes to vanish into what must have been the kitchen. Looking around Baxter tried to find a seat, but any and all surfaces were covered with boxes, bundles or overstuffed plastic bags. In the end Baxter leaned, propping an elbow against the fireplace mantle and waiting for his host to reappear; he did so in short order, a paper sack pinched between his arthritic fingers. "Hope ya like it warm; the fridge is on the fritz."
<
br />   Baxter reached in and took a bottle. "Thanks." He twisted the beer and drank. Shea wasn't kidding. The brew had skunked, but Baxter drank it anyway, unwilling to appear unappreciative. He watched as Shea pushed aside a pile of newspapers and sat heavily in a chair. Something seemed was on his mind, his eyes sere and thoughtful.

  " So why'd you come lookin' for me?"

  Baxter was taken aback by the suddenness of the question, and thought long and hard about his answer. "Where else would I have gone?"

  Shea laughed at this. "Ha! Right? I knew you was the one, boy. Out of all of 'em, you seemed the only one with any sense. You and the girl, anyway."

  Baxter knew Shea meant Erica. Wishing she were here with him, Baxter took another sip of his beer and pressed on. "I have some questions. About the past. About what's happened before at Ashton Manor."

  Shea's green eyes flashed. "Hmm. I'm sure you do."

  "Can you tell me what you know about its history? Who these people are, just what it is I'm in the middle of?"

  Shea's smile vanished."You and your friends are in a bind, son. How that is… well, let's just say it's a long story. The Ashtons, they've always been up to no good. Since the time they first came down, they've been set on holdin' this valley, and were not above truck with certain folk to get what they wanted. They found a way to…" He trailed off. "You been down that path. You've seen what it brings."

  Baxter nodded, his mouth dry in spite of the beer. "We've been performing… experiments. We smoke this stuff. Ashton calls it Paq'qa. He says it grows in the mines. It gives us hallucinations, visions."

  Shea's features darkened with Baxter's revelation. "It's was sacrament used by the Dadan, one of the Indian tribes that once lived here. It's shaman medicine, not to be played with. It opens the third eye, makes a body aware of the other Planes." He looked at Baxter sadly. "You can never unsee what you've seen; you can't undo what's been done to ya. This Paq'qa, it's one of those things that should've never been. It changes a body, makes him into something he's not meant to be. It makes us go past ourselves, into a place impossible for life to exist. It's not for us." Shea set his bottle aside, leaned forward as if to convey a secret. He remained silent, but began tapping his long fingernails in rhythm to some unheard music, a damnable tune that had worked its way into Baxter's very marrow.

  Baxter exploded. "That music! It's part of it! What is it you know? Tell me, damn it! What is happening?"

  Shea looked at his hand as if it were an alien, the appendage working of its own accord to sound out the now-familiar music of iFFF. He drew it upwards, curled the thick calloused fingers into a fist.

  "I first met Wertham Ashton in the spring of Nineteen-thirty-nine. He was on the mine's Board of Directors at the time, and decided to drop in one mornin' unannounced. I was foreman at the time, so he came to me. After a little small talk he told me to be prepared: big changes were coming. He wanted to know if I could get the workers to stand beside him. He knew I had a rapport with them, that I'd known most of 'em their whole lives. I told him that those men were more concerned about keepin' their own jobs to worry about someone else losin' theirs. We knew something had to give, and it did.

  “That summer, Wertham took control of the company, using who-knows-what to blackmail the lot of 'em. There were rumors, but people will talk. Anyone, the other members of the Board were powerful men in their own right. They ran the whole show and weren't going to go easy. They used their muscle on the bank, had it demand repayment of a previous loan due to “impropriety.” Laws at the time prevented Ashton from paying the debt himself, so he decided to create a consortium of workers to assume the debt. He would funnel money to them to begin repayments and maintain control of the mine in the meantime. Wertham wanted me to head the whole thing up. He knew I was someone the men respected, probably the only one they'd even listen to about such a thing. He needed me and I knew it, but more importantly, my friends needed me. The whole city was going under, the mine bein' the main source of revenue fer the townsfolk. If somethin' wasn't done right then, well… I'm sure I don't need t' spell it out fer you."

  Baxter nodded, impressed. He had expected there to be more to his host than their first two experiences suggested, but he'd had no idea the man was possessed of such depth and thoughtfulness. This was by design, Baxter realized, the old man being crafty enough to let people underestimate him.

  "Well, during this time I got to seeing a lot of ol' Wertham. He'd drop by the house to talk about this or that. Just business at first but in time he seemed to take a more… personal interest."

  Shea grew grave, fell into a silence that quickly became uncomfortable. Baxter took another sip of his beer and winced, wondering how it was the old man could quaff the stuff so effortlessly. It was bitter and undrinkable, how a bottle of old wino piss might taste if left to mellow in the sun. Baxter set the bottle down on a bound stack of old UFO Report magazines and hoped he wasn't offered another.

  "My wife's name was Marie," Shea faltered, “What she saw in me I never knew. I wasn't nothin' before she came along. She became my everything. We'd been married fer a few years, had made a little home for ourselves down in the valley."

  Shea pulled an old vinyl pouch from the pocket of his overalls and deftly rolled a cigarette. He struck a blue-tip match on the sole of his shoe to light it, then continued. "Wertham had started to take a shine to us. He'd stop by in the early evenin' with bottles of wine, sit at the kitchen table and jaw for hours. He was keen on Marie from the first. Think he was a bit surprised by her. She was whip-smart and kept up with his line of talk better than I could, catching him out sometimes when he'd try to pull one over. It was for fun mostly, but I always felt there was somethin' more to it. He had a way, that man did; he would ask you questions that seemed normal enough, but the way he listened to yer answers… like he was listenin' deeper than just the surface words. Soundin' you out, if you will. Anyway, Marie took to him, as well. Found him stimulating company. Mind you, stuck at home without a job or no family to care for… well, an intelligent woman like that's gonna go a little stir crazy. Wertham started bringing her books. It was normal enough stuff: science digests and the like, maths and history. I would laugh when I saw her readin' this stuff, said old Wertham was running her back through elementary school. She'd just smile patiently and read on… I was such a fool." Shea hung his head, vanishing in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Baxter didn't like the turn his host's tale was taking, but could only listen as he continued.

  "Wertham invited us to a party at the manor. Now, at this point I was less than comfortable of the idea of paling around with him. He'd caused a lot of good folks hardship and pain and those folks were my neighbors and kin. I wasn't prepared to sell 'em out, nor was I willing to 'trade up' and start hanging around with the decadent freaks and weirdos he'd brought over from Europe. Still, as Foreman I was obligated to be its public face and as such I had to attend such things. Marie was wild over the idea, excited about meeting new folk and getting a glimpse of what life was like up the hill. This was a troubling thought at the time. I was getting nervous. Got to thinking about losin' her, and began to grow jealous with Wertham's attentions. Things grew… tense between she and I in the days leadin' up to the party. I was being stubborn, typical jackass behavior on my part. At the time I wasn't much older than you; it was a lot of pressure to put on a boy that age and I was all alone in it. I had no one I could really talk to. There was no one to tell me how to do right.

  "Unable to find a good enough excuse to back out, we went to the party. It wasn't a formal affair, but folks was dressed to the nines anyway, all dudded up in suits and gowns. I felt pretty out of place but Marie was thrilled. Wertham introduced us to a few folks; Mayor Howard Phillips, then-Senator Al Machen, the infamous Reverend H. Hodges. There were a few famous types as well. I was amazed to see Wilma Randolph in person. Fellas were trippin' over themselves to get to her. She was there... lemmie see, some crazy poet called Gisarme Duarte. Ever hear of him?"
r />   Baxter shook his head in the negative and Shea harrumphed.

  "Good. His stuff was terrible. Let it rot with him. There were others, but I'm gettin' off track. It's enough to say Marie and I were impressed in spite of ourselves. Wertham was a gracious host and seemed a better man than I'd given him credit for. I was ashamed of myself for doubting his motives and resolved not to be so pig-headed in the future. We saw a lot of each other in the following months. He had us over more than a few times, slowly insinuatin' himself into our lives. By now Marie was pretty involved with him. Not in a romantic way; not like your thinkin'. She felt him to be more a brother… 'least-wise, that's what she'd say. Wertham was someone she could talk to fer hours about subjects that, frankly, didn't interest me at the time. I was glad to have the space and she was glad to have the stimulation. This was my biggest mistake. I lost track of what she was readin', what ideas she was having about the way things were. Wertham had given her that book… this book." Shea reached forward and plucked a slim volume from the low shelf, then tossed it to Baxter. It was, unsurprisingly, Clautney Iris' The Other Way.

  "A first edition," Baxter noted, scanning the indicia.

  Shea scowled. "Should've been the last," he said, visibly angry. "That goddamn thing is a prescription for madness. Ruins everyone and everything it touches. I didn't know it at the time. Thought it was just more goofball poetry or some such. Marie didn't much talk about it. Guess she figured I wouldn't care to hear. But if I'd known. If only I'd…" Shea was shaking, his face red. Sweat shone on his brow, had soaked through his thin shirt collar.

  "Hey, you all right?"