Sanctum Arcanum

by Alexander Kautz

  It seemed that he had become silenced with the fear, his features twisted and eyes revealing some primal, though soundless scream! The couple now held each other closer. Terrified beyond words, he struggled, stuttering as he attempted to speak. “She said that it was wet and like a toad, and that its skin looked like paper stretched over dried and splintered wood. It had grabbed at her with fingers, long, clawed and cold to the touch. And that it had pulled her from the bed, as she was kicking and fighting, but unable to scream.”

  An icy chill ran the length of my spine, the goose pimples rising upon my arms as the hairs at the nape of my neck stood on end! There was a brief pause as he had looked around the room, then placed a trembling finger to his lips, “It dragged her down, biting, clawing at her flesh. It attempted to pull her beneath the bed, but that was when she had finally screamed.”

  “And then?” Rich’s eyes were huge, his glasses slightly fogged from the cold sweat that now glistened upon his brow.

  “Trudy had been awakened and come running—and switched on the light, but saw nothing there. Just poor little Colleen, all bruised and bleeding from a number of claw marks and nasty bites….”

  “And what was the diagnosis when you had her examined by the doctor in town?” I struggled with the cold lump that now formed in my bowels.

  “He had insisted that the wounds were apparently made by a person--,” Gregory’s eyes were wide and held a suspension of disbelief, “But said that the infection had been caused by a bacterium found only in the dead….”

  To this remark Rich had shot me a bitter glance, a reminder of the Woodlands demon, poor Dennis and our most recent fight.

  “Is it possible that she might have come into contact with this bacterium sometime after the wounds were made?” I had questioned the source and covered all possibilities.

  “Impossible--,” Gregory had grumbled, “She remained indoors and with us until we had taken her to the hospital.”

  “And you did a search of the premises without a doubt?” Rich scribbled down the questions, under-lining the pertinent answers.

  “I took a lantern and went from top to bottom, and from the inside and out. I found nothing but dust, undisturbed in the attic by anything or anyone but by my own futile efforts.”

  “You mentioned a cemetery in the letter—can you enlighten us on that?” Unnerved and feeling a strange tension, I sipped at the hot tea.

  “My daughters stumbled on that while blackberry picking. It rests to the far Northern edge of the property and near the fences’ end. Covered in brambles and surrounded in saplings, it would otherwise have remained invisible to the naked eye.” He swallowed at his coffee, licking at dry lips, “The patch of ground that it occupies is no larger than ten meters in distance and the same in width. At some point there had once been a wooden fence, but it was brought down by either time or weather. Nothing remains of it now but a few scarce, scattered and broken boards. As for the several graves that reside in that dismal place, the names of their occupants are anyone’s guess. Though some of the wooden markers still remain, you’ll not find a legible word written upon a single one of them. Although they were made of some type of hard-wood, and the lettering having been carved deeply, I fear they have suffered greatly over time.”

  This had of course drawn Rich’s immediate attention, as tapping a pen to his pad, he thought before asking, “Is it possible that those inscriptions were made in another language?”

  “I would have liked to have seen them all.” A sudden anxiety now took firm hold of my heart. Looking toward the window and endless snow, I said, “But I doubt very much that we would find anything buried under all that snow…”

  Gregory had just looked in question to his wife, who had shrugged, appearing suddenly disturbed, “I did some etchings from what remained of one of those old boards. We were hoping to discover something—but never made head or tails out of it. It’s in a cabinet drawer. Would you like me to fetch it?”

  “By all means—please do.” I accepted more tea from Gregory as his wife hurried off. She had returned momentarily, as producing a page of onionskin paper, proceeded to spread it out upon the table before us. Although the lettering had been sketchy at first, the majority captured through the scribbling of pencil, I soon recognized the characters. There were most definitely of Latin origin, but had been scrawled very poorly. It appeared as though the author had been unfamiliar with the true characters, or written them all too swiftly, perhaps even both.

  Rich had moved to make a comment, but I had halted him with a polite gesture of my hand. It had occurred to me that few people had ever written funerary inscriptions in Latin and that these might be something far more sinister.

  “Would you mind terribly if we kept this—and looked over it again in the morning?” I had attempted to appear undisturbed with the discovery.

  “Of course not—by all means--,” Laura had stared down at the page, “Do you think that it could be important—or that it might help in some way?”

  Realizing that we currently had no possible way of translating the words, a sudden sense of hopelessness overcame me, “This may have had some significance--,” I looked to Rich, “You wouldn’t happen to have a Latin to English dictionary, would you?”

  He had offered a disappointed frown in reply, our hopes of translating the words lost in that very same moment.

  “What about father Delaney--,” Gregory reminded his wife, looking back to us with a glint of hope in his eye, “He is our parish—and speaks fluent Latin.”

  “Then it’s settled--,” Rich appeared relieved as he looked around the table, “We can visit the father in the morning and see what we can learn about this thing.”

  “There was one other thing that I neglected to mention in the letter.” Gregory drained his tea, looking nervously about the group, and said, “It’s about the room. You see, we keep it tightly sealed and the girls are strictly forbidden from ever going there.”

  “The room--,” Something had peaked Rich’s interest, “Which room are you talking about, exactly?”

  “It’s the room--,” Laura had peered at her husband, her tone low as she obviously feared being over-heard, “The parlor where Agatha gave her séances, and was said to have died….”

  Our expressions and sudden stillness seemed to have revealed our thoughts and intentions as Gregory now motioned for us to follow. Moving quietly from the kitchen, we travelled back through the hall, past the stairs and into the back of the house.

  We had attempted to move without detection as not to disturb the children sleeping above, but the old boards creaked and groaned beneath our weight in passage, no matter what we tried. In any event, we soon came to a closed door that appeared at the end of the hall and to our immediate right. It was locked. Producing a skeleton key from a pants pocket, Gregory hesitantly and ever so cautiously opened it before us, reaching a hand into the presiding darkness, and switched on the light.

  Unwilling to even enter the parlor, Gregory had remained behind with his wife while inviting us to enter at our own discretion. We had slowly moved into the room, the stagnant air stifling as the dust was disturbed with our efforts.

  “As I had mentioned--,” Gregory had peeked in from behind us and whispered, “We have kept it sealed since we first arrived. I’m afraid that it’s rather unpleasant and has remained unattended for quite some time.”

  The room was rounded and quite large. With high ceilings, wine colored walls and black and red tussled draperies, it was suffocating even without the dust. There was very little to mention concerning furnishings. There was a large and rounded antique oak table, surrounded by six matching high-backed chairs. They rested upon an old red and circular Persian carpet, the floor all about being bare. The once polished wood had long faded and was blackened in places by mildew. An ornate bureau containing dust-covered occult objects stood nearest to the door. Directly across from that was an enormous old wardrobe, ornately detailed, and likely crafted from teak or mah
ogany. There was also a single oil painting, rather large and framed in a carved oak, gold-leafed pattern. It was centered upon the wall and directly behind where I had assumed Agatha to have once been seated.

  “It’s a portrait of an old woman--,” Rich had approached the painting and paused to examine the image, “I doubt that it was Agatha, she looks to be in her late seventies or more.”

  Blinded by the sudden flash of my camera he stepped back, shielding his eyes from the glare as I took several more of the table and room.

  “That was her mother--,” Gregory had advised from where he still stood in the open door, “An old witch if I ever saw one, pardon my saying so.”

  “Was there a reason that you never cleaned out this room?” Rich had turned in question.

  “Other than the fact that the woman died in here--,” Gregory quietly replied, his eyes scanning the long shadows, “It just never felt right—and we wouldn’t want our daughters in here.”

  Discovering the crystal ball covered by a black silk cloth in the center of the table, I glanced back at Rich. There was something in his blank stare that warned of touching the thing.

  “Feel free to help yourselves to anything that you might want to take from this room.” Gregory had offered, his tone revealing certain dread, “We would sooner see everything gone—to be quite honest.”

  Rich had paused to examine a small horned owl that rested forever upon a branch on the mantel and above the black iron hearth. It appeared far too thin and missing feathers, its golden and dust-covered eyes staring into oblivion. It was apparent by his dismayed expression that we would not be removing anything from this insidious room. I was beginning to feel a nauseating chill. Not something experienced through a cold gust entering by means of some crack or poorly sealed window, but the distinct sense that something else, an unearthly presence, was now with us in the room….

  “Did anyone else hear something just now?” Rich stood absolutely still, listening, as his eyes traveled suspiciously into the surrounding shadows.

  But before anyone could even reply or respond, there came a mind-shattering scream from somewhere on the second floor! And with that, we were all running just as fast as our legs could carry us!

  We traveled up the stairs with Gregory in the lead and Laura close behind, the screams coming again and again! As we reached the top of the stairs and turned into the dimly lit hallway, we were confronted by the eldest daughter. Panicked and wild-eyed, she held the youngest in her arms and wept, leading us into the bedroom of the middle child.

  “Colleen!” Laura had raced into the room, grabbing and tightly embracing the little girl. She was pale as a sheet and just staring, quite apparently suffering from shock!

  “I heard something--,” The eldest girl gasped, “Like a dragging sound—and came out to look.” She wailed, the tears flowing freely, “And something had her—it was trying to pull her into the dark—and up the stairs into the attic!”

  Rich ran toward the attic stairs with Gregory in close pursuit, the two men scrambling up the steps in an obvious rage!

  “Calm down, my dear--,” I had attempted to comfort the women, “If anyone is up there—they will see to them immediately.”

  “Oh—but it wasn’t someone--,” Trudy’s red and tearful eyes were huge, bulging from their sockets, “It was terribly thin, all bones it was. Not a person at all—but something else…”

  “Whatever it was—everything will be just fine now--,” I looked to Laura as she tightly embraced little Colleen, the sounds of the two men racing about the attic thundered from above, “Maybe we should take the girls downstairs and set them next to the fire—would that be alright?” Laura had indicated her agreement with a nod, her expression twisted, terrified as she now led her daughters down and away from the frightening scene.

  “Not a single thing—not a print or the slightest sign of a struggle,” Rich hurried back down the attic stairs, “No evidence of a forced entry on the windows, and no possible escape from the attic with exception to this single stairway.”

  “What madness is this—what evil has befallen my family in this accursed place?” Gregory cursed under his breath, pleading as he looked between us, “How do I protect my family—what can we do against something that leaves no print or proof?”

  “I’m not exactly certain--,” I looked back at the men, a sudden courage of conviction taking hold of my heart, “But I promise you that if it’s possible—we will find a way.”

  “Are you a religious man?” Rich had asked the obvious question.

  “We are all Roman Catholic for many generations—why do you ask?”

  “I would ask that you all wear these--,” Rich produced a number of silver crosses from a cloth bag that he pulled from a vest pocket, and handing them to the man, quietly said, “They may not hold back whatever now haunts your home—but they will keep you safe for the time being.”

  “What are you going to do?” Gregory appeared desperate, terrified beyond his wits.

  Placing a reassuring hand upon our friend’s shoulder, I had just quietly remarked, “Everything and anything in our power to help….” We had stood there in the shadows at the top of the stairs, and then slowly turned to look down, peering from between the dark bannister rails. We could clearly see to where his family had silently huddled below. Frightened and desperately clinging to one another, they visibly trembled before the hearths gentle and protective glow.

  Tuesday, November 5, 1974.

  The family had spent the remainder of that evening huddled altogether before the hearth. Rich and I had served silent vigil. Seated upon chairs before the foot of the stairs, we guarded against the nightmare on the second floor. There had been sounds as the house cooled and settled. Unexplained creaks and groans that set us on our feet several times, but nothing had moved in the dimly lit corridor above.

  My attention had remained focused upon the single and burning light. A small antique fixture of which mounted upon the corridor wall near where we sat, now flickered and threatened to go out. The entire house rested in darkness, aside from the hearth and lamps in the living-room. We had sipped at tea and coffee, nibbling at cakes while we slowly passed the long and bitter night.

  “What do you think is so remarkable about that little girl--,” Rich had whispered while deep in thought, “That this thing is after only her?”

  “And that even in the light—it chanced attempting to drag her off…?” The barely audible thought escaped my mind, “But how could a thing of substance and able to physically drag the child, just escape without a trace?”

  “Maybe it didn’t?” His gaze was now drawn upward into the long shadows of the railing, “What if it never left her room? Trudy panicked, she went for little Paula. In that brief moment, maybe rather than attempting to return to the attic—it slipped back into Colleen’s room?”

  “Or is it possible that it never left at all?” We stared at one another. Swallowing hard, I said, “What if this apparition or entity remains attached to something? Obsessing an item, object or thing—or possibly even possessing a person…”

  “It could be almost anything--,” The look in his eye reflecting both confusion and fear as he reminded me, “We also have to consider the possibility that the mere presence of this family might have awakened something old in this place. We have to also keep in mind that there are three young children here. According to research done by parapsychologists in the field of poltergeist activity, this might also be some kind of uncontrolled psychokinesis.”

  “But, you have seen these people—and their children. They live a peaceful and loving life—with exception to what is now occurring in this house. Usually, poltergeist activity is attributed due to chaotic circumstances or a traumatic incident. It’s always some abusive situation or tragic event, which causes the child to subconsciously release this energy, in a type of desperate attempt of self-preservation. You saw them this evening—all huddled together before the fire. I can’t forget the frightened
look in that poor man’s eyes—the eyes of a loving and desperate father, not some heartless or abusive animal.”

  “Then—let’s consider something a little different.” He contemplated the long shadows trailing from the landing above, “What if this is a form of telekinesis—and that little Colleen has been used by something in this place—or out in that old cemetery, to return?”

  “Telekinesis is an ability to move or influence physical objects with the mind—sometimes even at great distances. Yet, this is only a source of animation and would hardly rectify an act of true resurrection.” Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I shrugged, “If that had been the case—then we should have found physical evidence. Some proof of a presence, of someone or something having been here—in the attic, or her room….”

  “Or maybe, it’s still just ectoplasm and like the substance of a nightmare, or a dream. Maybe it needs her in the same way that Amelia needed you and Caitlin.” His words caused the blood to run cold in my veins, “Is it possible that we’re being fooled, kept occupied by shadows here in the house? And while we’re sitting here, watching and waiting on nothing—that somewhere out in that graveyard, something is slowly rejuvenating, returning…?”

  There was a sudden creaking like the sound of cautious steps creeping now coming from the ceiling above. Our attention drawn back to the head of the stairs, we moved ever so slowly from out of our chairs. With the greatest of restraint, moving as not to disturb our hosts, we made our way slowly upward and onto the stairs. As we did this, that strange creaking hesitated from somewhere near and above and came to a sudden stop!

  Rich had looked silently to me as we stood in the darkness near the top of the stairs. Suddenly realizing that although Gregory had never extinguished the attic lights, we had mysteriously stood in the pitch dark…. To this we had not reacted, but simply switched on our flashlights, and ever so cautiously made our way to the top of the stairs. It had happened so suddenly that neither of us had been absolutely sure. But there had been a sudden and furtive movement, a shadow in the hall as a black mist, swiftly disappearing into the darkness above the attic stairs. We had looked upon one another, frightened out of our wits. Neither of us absolutely willing, but under solemn oath of assistance, we slowly turned and moved toward the attic steps. We had managed to make as little sound as possible. Listening near the heating grates, we could clearly hear the sounds of snoring and undisturbed sleepers still coming from below. The old furnace had suddenly breathed life, the sounds of the belching heat sending us backward with the sudden fright!