The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  Shea did not answer Baxter. Instead, he pulled a plastic bottle from his shirt pocket and popped a handful of little yellow pills into his mouth, washing them down with a swig of beer.

  "Jesus, mister!"

  Shea coughed wetly and banged a clenched fist against the arm of his chair. Eyes watering, he turned to Baxter. "Don't worry, son. The government pays for 'em. I can take as many as I need."

  It wasn't quite what Baxter had meant but, anxious for Shea to continue his story, he let it drop.

  "I got my first real lesson at Wertham's Halloween party. Big masquerade ball, a huge to-do even for him. Marie made our costumes by hand, had spent weeks cuttin' and stichin' to get them together. I was Robin Hood and she was my Maid Marion. Well, she'd outdone herself, and even though I swore up and down I'd never get into those green tights I did for her. Looked good, too. Had a real bow and everything, an item Wertham had been only too happy to lend her.

  "Well, we went on up to the Manor. It'd been transformed, made into a haunted castle sort of thing. Cobwebs, bats and what have you; I hoped Bela Lugosi would pop out, but he never did. That was the amazing thing about being at Ashton Manor; you never knew who was around the next corner. Anyway, I found myself talking to a truly unusual man. He wasn't like the bohemians or occultists who hung around these parties. First of all he looked old, maybe forty years my senior. Had a wild, bushy beard and hair to match. He wore a black robe covered with weird symbols, only it didn't look like a costume on him."

  Baxter flipped the book over. "Him?"

  Shea nodded sadly. "If I'd looked at the damn book before I would've known. As it was I had no idea. We talked about the war. Now, this was right before the U.S. got into it. There was a lot of uncertainty in the air, a sense that anything could happen. Got a strong sense he thought we was on the wrong side of the fence, so to speak. He talked about big changes comin', how the world would never be the same. From him I actually believed it. Anyway, after a few minutes he was spirited off by that fool Duarte and I didn't see him again. Marie had vanished and I found myself in a room full of strangers.

  "The costumes they wore… well, at the time they seemed pretty scandalous. Lots of skin showin' on the gals, see-through veils and that sort of thing. As the night wore on they got friendlier and friendlier, but as a married man I couldn't in good conscience reciprocate. Didn't want to, truth to be told. It was all a bit much for me; all I wanted was to find my wife and go home. Well, I got to asking around. No one knew where she was, or if they did they weren't telling me. Seemed like they were all laughin' behind their masks, making me out a fool. I got pretty angry and went upstairs. Started looking in all the closed rooms but couldn't find her or Wertham. Soon I was livid, ready to choke the bastard, but he was nowhere to be found. I happened to glance out of the upstairs window then. There was a full moon that night, and in the dim light I could just see the runnin' shadows."

  He opened another beer.

  "I knew I couldn't get to her in time. It would've taken at least five minutes to get down there. So I waited. I watched moment by agonizing moment as my wife was chased through the garden and down the hillside. Then they went into the trees that ring the lower garden. For maybe thirty seconds I lost sight of her, was sure I'd made a terrible mistake in waiting. And then Marie appeared, just beneath the window, runnin' like the devil himself were on her heels. As far as I was concerned he was. I notched an arrow and let it fly. I hadn't fired a bow since I was a boy, but fool's luck was with me. I hit Wertham in his right thigh; dropped him like a bad habit. Once he was down I ran like all hell to get outside.

  "I found Marie huddled in a doorway. She was speaking, but of what, I'd rather not say. At the time I had no idea what had happened. I only knew it was time for the two of us to go. Got her in the car and drove out of there. Marie… it seemed like her mind had snapped. She was seein' things that weren't there, screaming and cussing like a mad woman. And that's how she was from there on. My wife never came back." Shea drank to wash the bitterness of the memory away, but his face remained twisted. He lapsed into a period of silence, broken only by his pattern of labored breathing.

  Baxter sat stunned, wishing he was anywhere else. He'd come looking for answers, but this was far more than he'd been prepared to hear.

  "The doctors called it 'spontaneous psychosomatic collapse' although I know for a fact there's no such thing. They tried a variety of things to bring her back but… well, at the time they had some rather ill-informed ideas about the human mind. Probably made it worse, but it's best not to think that way. Well, you can imagine I had a few questions for Wertham. He came to see me shortly after, bandaged leg and all. It was clear things had changed between us. He spoke of what happened to Marie as an unfortunate accident and seemed content to leave it at that. I was not. I demanded he tell me what the hell he'd done to her, that he undo it before I put another arrow through his heart. With a laugh he told me he'd smoked a rare Indian sacrament with her and she'd had a bad reaction. There was no antidote, no cure; her mind had snapped because she was weak, unable to accept the gift that had been offered to her. Well, I nearly killed him there on the spot but I couldn't bring myself to believe him. I begged him to return my wife to me, to make her as she was before.

  "He seemed to consider this, said that could be a way… provided I pay the price. There, by my wife's bedside, he explained to me just what it was he was up to. Told me all about Paq'q, how he and his acolytes were in the service of this thing. Told me if I did the same my wife might be restored, that we would have a seat in Paq'q's court. Well, I had no idea what to say to this. I'd never heard such talk before; I'm a Methodist. At least, I was." He turned from the window and faced Baxter.

  "So I made a deal with him, agreed to do what he wanted in exchange for certain favors. And it was over, I knew. I was on the other side now; from then on I'd look out for Wertham's interests, not my friends. I would be his tool, a bought man just like all the others, competing for my Master's favor. Thank God for the war.

  "America finally jumped into it and with both feet. A bunch of local boys were called up and I was lucky enough to be one of 'em. Sounds insane, I know, but I was happy enough to go. The Germans were an enemy I could wrap my head around. The things Wertham spoke of… they were beyond my imagination. It was a relief to get away. Marie stayed in the hospital; I could no longer face her. It was just too much. The experience at the Manor had left her shattered, unable to comprehend the simplest things. She spoke of being Wertham's Queen, how her flesh was now dedicated to the service of Paq'q. How she had to be free so that she could be claimed when He came. This was all beyond me. I left."

  Shea was pacing in the narrow space now, the memory agitating him.

  "I was in the army for a year and a half, 'til I caught some shrapnel; just enough, it seems. Though I practically begged my C.O. to stay on, he sent me home. I guess I made him a little nervous; not too many men asked to stick around after getting hit. I came back to Tull, even though I could have gone anywhere. At the time I still felt a sense of obligation to Marie, even though, deep down, I knew there was nothing anyone could do. Still, some part of me knew I had to come back."

  The old man sat heavily in his chair, the past weighing unevenly upon him. He went to drink but he'd finished his beer minutes before. With a small sigh he let it drop from his fingers, the bottle clunking softly on the carpet. Shea began to sag; perhaps the pills were kicking in. Baxter resisted the urge to prod him. He didn't want the old man to fall asleep before finishing his tale. He needn't have worried.

  "I was a father. Crazy timing, right? Marie had conceived just before the... the incident. When she gave birth in the sanitarium the news was kept from me while I was overseas. Government claimed it was a paperwork mistake, but I knew better. Didn't mind in the end so much, though; it did save me from worryin' about something I had no control over. I took my boy home. As for Marie, she had a series of episodes, the last of which put three people in the hospi
tal. She managed to throw herself out a window in the end. She died."

  Shea said this with a curious disconnectedness, as though he were a machine playing a recording. Grabbing another beer from the sack he pressed the warm glass to the sweaty flesh of his forehead.

  "As you can imagine I was unwilling to go back to the way things were. I refused my old position and left the mine all together. Wertham seemed not to care. He got along fine without me in the time I was away. When I came back he stopped in for a visit, contrite about what had happened with Marie. Said he would've never given her the sacrament if he hadn't thought she was ready for it, told me it was the greatest mistake of his life. He left me with a blank check, so me and mine would never want for nothing. I burned it after he'd gone, unwilling to have anything more to do with him.

  "From then on I kept to myself. With what money I had, I bought this here house. My sister Sue came down, a war widow herself. Helped out best she could, but it soon became clear something was wrong with my boy. From the first the boy was angry. I could never understand it. He wouldn't cry as much as scream, ragin' against who knows what. Could throw his bottle like a major-league pitcher; hurt like a bitch when he connected. He was an early walker. Once he got up on his feet Danny wouldn't stop 'til he was caught. Hated his crib, would shriek and bellow until he was let out. Preferred to sleep on the floor. It was tough on all of us, was like living with an alien. We just didn't speak his language. We couldn't give the kid what he needed.

  "It just got worse and worse. Daniel was unable to interact with other children. He'd try and communicate and when they didn't understand he'd attack them. He attacked me constantly. Them little fists… it would have been comical if I hadn't seen the look on his face. He was as desperate a person as I've ever seen, unable to voice whatever the hell it was that had him so fired up. When he was five he attacked a little boy he saw at the supermarket. Beat the living Hell out of him. I wasn't there, but I heard all about it. County stepped in then, took him away for a few years. I'll be honest with you; I was relieved. He was my boy; of this I have no doubt. But whatever it was inside of him didn't come from me or his mother. An' if it wasn't us then…" He let Baxter finish the thought.

  "The Paq'qa?"

  Shea nodded. "That's what I think. Like I said, once you been exposed to that stuff your never the same again. I've done a lot of studyin' in the last forty years. Learned a lot about this Paq'qa and how it fits into the story. It's tailor-made for one purpose only." His voice lowered to a whisper.

  "Each one of us is born with a gift. Now, this gift, it's more a seed than anything. A sleeping seed. Most of us never even know it's there, so deeply is it planted. It responds like certain seeds do, requiring intense stimuli to sprout. Even once it does, the conditions have to be just so for it to flourish and grow. Well, some folks, lets say one in ten thousand, their seed gets this stimuli, from one source or another. It might be spurred by some physical impetus, such as trauma to the body, or it could be triggered by severe mental duress. For others it can occur through beatific revelation or certain hypnotic states. In some cases it can be jogged by psychoactive chemicals." Shea allowed this to sink in before continuing.

  "When the seed sprouts it releases certain... primal energies, the latent power left untapped over the course of human evolution. This energy is in all things, both living and inert, though it remains stable in all but the most active minds. Usually when this power is released the subject is old enough to have a strong will and personality of their own. The energy can be shaped by this, infused into a being's character in such a way that augments the subject's personality, though the reverse is just as often true. There's no science to it, no true understanding of how to harness these energies. Although the power is remarkably versatile in its transformative capabilities, few folks can hold or contain it once released. Usually, when it is released only a small fraction is utilized, with most of it quickly returning to wherever it came from. It can manifest as some miraculous, God-like power, or in something as insignificant as one day knowing the price of a can of beans on a TV quiz show.

  "Now, these little instances are simply part of the tapestry of human experience. Each one moves us a little further down the road of evolution, but at a manageable speed. This planet and its passengers -- well, let's just say some feel there's a pre-set course to things here. The drama is meant to play out in a certain way, even though there are countless variables to keep it interesting. When this seed is artificially stimulated, when too much of this energy is released… it can have disastrous consequences. It can erode certain barriers, break down walls that must always be. When this energy is directed towards such a goal the results are beyond comprehension.” Shea looked at Baxter warily. "This book. How much of it do you believe?"

  Baxter looked down at the volume in his hands before replying. "None of it, really. I don't accept its theology or point of view, if that's what you're asking. It's all just some sort of elaborate excuse to get high and have sex as far as I'm concerned. Don't get me wrong, I like that stuff as much as the next college student, but that hardly makes me a cultist."

  Shea raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, son, if you ain't in a cult than my hat is a ham sandwich."

  The old coot did have a point. Over the past two months Baxter had taken a secret name, assumed a position in his host's magic circle and consumed the sacred Paq'qa with his fellows. He'd seen things beyond experience and imagination, had walked a road few knew of, let alone had traveled. If that wasn't being in a cult...

  "Care for a bite?" his host offered, hat dangling from two fingers.

  "All right, all right. You've made your point."

  Shea tossed the hat aside, then continued. "Paq'q and his brother, their story is most often interpreted metaphorically, as your typical light and darkness, yin and yang, the opposites struggling for balance. Well, I'm afraid to say the story is occurring in a literal fashion as well. Paq'q is now real, in the sense that something has accepted that name and the sacrifices that come with it. This entity is not part of our reality. It's unable to exist here without expending vast amounts of energy. Every time you smoke that stuff you poke a little hole between its realm and this one, feeding it, making it stronger. And the stronger it gets, the hungrier it gets. Wertham tried to bring it through once before and failed; now his grandson is picking up where the old man left off."

  Just then came the sound of wooden doors being flung open and the rush of something springing forward. Baxter leapt up, putting the chair between him and the sudden noise. Shea began laughing and Baxter felt his face quickly turn red. The cuckoo clock above his head was sounding the hour of midnight. "Damn. Is that really the time?"

  Shea nodded. "Yep. I been talkin' for a good long time now. Hope hearing all that wasn't too much for you."

  "Uh. No, not at all," Baxter lied, rising. In truth he felt completely overwhelmed by Shea's revelations. "I gotta get out of here. I had no idea it had gotten so late."

  Shea nodded, rising himself. "Actually, I have to thank you. I've never been able to... to tell anyone any of this. I've been livin' with it forever; thought I'd have to carry it to my grave. But you're right, you best be getting on." He looked at Baxter strangely. "And if your host asks where you've been?"

  Baxter cleared his throat. "I'll tell him I've just been out driving. That I stopped for a beer and lost track of time."

  Shea nodded. "Good enough. Now that you know, what are you gonna do?"

  Baxter thought long and hard about this. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I have more questions..."

  "Well, believe me, there's more to tell. Meet me at the bar Tuesday night if you can. If not, just come by here some time next week. Think you can find it again?"

  Baxter nodded even though he wasn't certain. "All right. Well, thanks." He offered his hand and Shea shook it, looking deep into his eyes.

  "Try not to do anything stupid in the meantime."

  NOW

  Erica wo
ke in the strange room, for a moment unsure how it was she'd come to be there. It was dim within, quiet, the air dusty and stale. She was lying on a bed, its coverlet ill-smelling and clammy against the exposed flesh of her arms. Through the thin gap in the drapes she could see the sky turning, the day's dregs weak and gray.

  "Ah, Sister. I'm glad you're awake. The time is upon us."

  Ashton stood in deep shadow, his features obscured. Erica found she had no memory of anything since breakfast, her mind a blur.

  "James? What happened?"

  He stepped forward, right hand extended. Unsure, she took it in her own and her drew her into the doorway.

  "You passed out in the hallway in front of my room. Adam said you attacked him, then just toppled over; you're lucky he was there to catch you."

  She searched the darkness but Ashton's face remained hidden in the gloom. But why was he hiding? Why was his robe open?

  "No. You're lying. I saw... I saw you!"

  Her memory came rushing back then, striking her as a fist might. Erica tried to run but Ashton was already there. He drew her into his shadow, pinning her arms behind her back and pulling her body against his own. A wet appendage began to twist in her hair, another caressing her neck, a third coming to rest on her left breast. She tried to scream but a fourth fell heavily over her mouth.

  "Don't fight me. You can't fight me."

  Erica writhed in his grip, unable to catch a breath. The door swung open and she was half-dragged, half-carried forward. In the faded light she saw the true form of James Ashton.

  “NO!”

  With one last effort she pushed away from him, grabbing for something, anything to hold on to. Then his powerful appendages found her again, blinding her eyes, covering her mouth and nose. For long moments Erica fought, but to no avail. In the end darkness claimed her, as the last of the light went out of the sky.

  ~*~

  Baxter bit down on the strip of leather, trying not to scream. Metathias had been busy. Not only had he strapped Baxter to a chair at the foot of the dining-room table, he'd lain a lovely candle-lit service, as well. Above, the glass chandelier caught the dancing firelight, casting ominous shapes across the high cracked ceiling. Baxter tried to distract himself with its shifting patterns but his need to scratch was all-consuming. The itch had spread quickly, creeping down behind his knees and up the small of his back. He struggled with his bonds but the straps were thick, unyielding to his most desperate efforts.