Black Rite

by Allen Caraway

  May 16, 2015

  Every night now me and Lizzy are at her grave and she always says the same thing, “You’ve got to get me out of there.” In the dreams, which are so realistic and vivid they’re like real events to me, I’m trying to get her to go all the way. I tell her I love her. And the crazy thing is, I do. She’s dead, man. DEAD. But I’m totally gone. Head over heels as Mom would have said. We make out a lot and it gets pretty intense, but she doesn’t want to do it. I get frustrated and wake up frustrated. I’m jerking off every goddamn morning as soon as I’m awake. Last night she said that she loves me too and if I got her out, we’d go all the way.

  Man, I’m seriously thinking that she isn’t resting easy. Lizzy went before her time and I just know she now regrets committing suicide and wants to live again. In those dreams I think I’m really with her. They’re way too intense. I believe that somehow, while I’m asleep, I’m transported to a place between the spirit world and our world where we can be together, a place where I’m feeling, seeing, hearing, smelling and touching her. If I brought her back, we could be together. The thing is, with the level I’m now at as an occultist and after reading Transcendental Magic: Its Doctrine and Ritual by Eliphas Levi, particularly the section on necromancy in which Levi thoroughly discusses human resurrection, I really think it could work. To quote him:

  “We have declared boldly our opinion, or rather our conviction, as to the possibility of resurrection in certain cases …. Death is a phantom of ignorance; it does not exist; everything in Nature is living, and it is because it is alive that everything is in motion and undergoes incessant change of form.”

  If she WAS back, no one would believe it, so it’s not as if we’d scare the shit out of anyone. They’d just assume that she’s some woman who looks like Lizzy. We could even give her another name to make it easier for her to blend in.

  Man, imagine that. Lizzy here, with me.

  May 20, 2015

  I keep telling Lizzy in the dreams (or whatever they really are) that I’m doing my best to help her. She says she might know a way and is working on it, whatever that means.

  What were the source of Gary’s dreams? I thought. Were they from his mind - a result of his infatuation with Lizzy - or from something else, something that was feeding him lies?

  I pondered the latter for a moment and concluded that an entity – perhaps one Gary had called up during one of his ceremonies - had stuck around, attached itself to him and, drawing upon Gary’s desire for Lizzy, had created his vivid dreams, although to what end I had no idea.

  I suddenly felt cold. Goose bumps rose on my arms.

  It was still here.

  The old man in the barn. No, that wasn’t right. Something that had appeared in the form of an old man.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ I murmured.

  Was it manipulating me too? Or was it just coincidence that I had become fascinated with Lizzy and that fascination had ironically attracted the entity’s attention? I looked at Gary’s small, neat handwriting. More questions tumbled into my head, fighting for precedence. Why had it taken on Lizzy’s form, visited Gary in his dreams and implored him to bring her back from the dead? How had it managed to convince him that he could actually do that?

  There was only one possible answer: Gary’s involvement with the occult and his interaction with the entity had driven him insane. He’d always been a little wild, but we’d thought of Gary as a loveable rogue, a man who deep down was decent, confident and rational. The image I’d had of him for thirty-five years was falling apart and it was as painful as his death had been.

  I took a break and wandered around the backyard while my brain attempted to process what I had read and subsequently concluded, then grabbed a pack of Doritos and two beers and strolled back to the living room.

  June 1, 2015

  Last night Lizzy told me she had found a way for us to be together. She told me about this very special book of magick called The Grimoire of Masdael. She said it’s very old and very powerful and there’s a ritual in it called The Resurrection of the Beloved that will bring her back, return Lizzy to how she was before she died. Lizzy told me it was brought over from Europe in the 17th century and it’s now in Beau Harkinen’s office! WTF?! Beau?! He doesn’t know the first thing about the occult! And I’ve got to steal it from him? Shit, man.

  June 2, 2015

  I’ve been trying to figure out how I’m going to get it from Beau’s house. He’s no fool. I’ve been over there a few times and his security system is as good as mine. Maybe better. Forget it.

  June 14, 2015

  Lizzy’s been bitching because I don’t want to do it. Now I dread going to sleep because it’ll be nag nag nag.

  June 20, 2015

  Okay, so can you believe this? Lizzy gave me the password to Beau’s security system! I can’t believe it. Can’t be true. But I’m going to sneak over tonight and find out.

  June 21, 2015

  HOLY FUCK IT WORKED!!!

  I went over in the early hours of the morning, put in the password and hey-fucking-presto, it deactivated the alarm! Un-fucking-believable! How the HELL did she know Beau’s password?! How is that possible?!

  June 22, 2015

  Done two spells to protect me from the law and from Beau and to help me quickly find the grimoire. Lizzy has chilled out. Not bitching anymore. She says she’s excited because now I can do the ritual and bring her back. Fuck yeah!

  June 23, 2015

  Tonight, baby, tonight.

  June 24, 2015

  FOUND IT!!!

  Nearly got caught, though. Well, kinda. Anyways, Beau doesn’t just have an office, he has an office suite – a separate building in a far corner of his humungous backyard. I deactivated the alarm and went in. Like Beau’s house, it’s freakin huge: entirely self-contained with a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, etc. Beau said once that his great-grandfather, who built the house and office, used to shut himself away for days at a time when he was working. Took me a long time to find the grimoire, however. He’s got a separate room dedicated to the library. The grimoire wasn’t on the shelves. I eventually found it in a trunk with other occult books – all real old. I was tempted to take some of those too until I saw the size of the grimoire. It’s HUGE, seriously heavy and looks waaaayy old. It’s handwritten in old English which is hard to understand but I’m slowly getting used to it. I’ve been sitting here in my own office reading it since I got in at 1 a.m. The stuff in here is amazing. Ceremonies, rituals and spells for everything you could possibly imagine. Can’t wait to try it out.

  So I took it out, put it in my backpack and returned to the main office area where Beau’s desk is.

  There was an old man sitting behind it, looking right at me as I entered the room.

  I swear my heart stopped.

  “Good,” he said, and smiled. “Just remember to look after it. It’s irreplaceable.”

  Then he fucking vanished. Poof. Gone. I’ve never left a place in such a hurry.

  Think I’d better get some sleep now. Gonna be a long day tomorrow.

  I stood up, shaking my head. ‘God damn idiot,’ I muttered and walked upstairs to my office, taking the journal with me, throwing it onto the desk and then opening the cupboard where I now kept his books. I took out the grimoire and began leafing through the pages until I found the ritual that Gary had mentioned.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ I said.

  It was gruesome.

  First, one needed to obtain something worn by the deceased. A small piece of cloth cut from an item of clothing would suffice. Under normal circumstances that would be relatively easy. For Gary, it must have been very difficult, but it didn’t compare to what he needed next: two pieces of the corpse, the first part boiled with various herbs to make a potion. Apparently, anything would do, such as a tooth, piece of skin, hair, a bone, etc. I didn’t want to dwell, even for a moment, on how he got that. Finally, and most sickening of all, a human sacrific
e. A life for a life. The entity evoked during the ritual taking the victim’s soul as payment, the victim’s blood used to regenerate the corpse.

  Conducted in two parts, the mage (as the grimoire referred to the practitioner) began the ritual on the night of the new moon by painting what it called ‘The Circle of Aritenkhede’ on the ground in human blood, arranging six black candles around it, then - using his own blood - writing the deceased’s name on a section of parchment, wrapping it around the second piece taken from the corpse, then the cloth around that, securing it with green cord and placing the parcel at the exact center of the circle.

  Below the text was a large illustration. I groaned. It was the magic circle that Stefano had found in the den.

  The mage then stepped into the circle, lit the candles in a clockwise direction, evoked a spirit called Aritenkhede, explained the purpose of the ritual while entreating Aritenkhede’s help and then drank half of the potion, the thought of which made me want to hurl.

  That was the end of part one.

  The following night, the mage conducted part two at the gravesite. After another evocation, he drank the rest of the potion, placed the parcel on top of the body and then sacrificed his victim - someone young and of the same sex as the deceased - making sure his or her blood covered the corpse.

  I couldn’t believe what I was reading; found myself hoping, wishing, that I would discover that Gary had come to his senses and not performed the ritual.

  Curious to learn more about Aritenkhede, I got out of my chair and crouched in front of the cupboard, scanning the spines of Gary’s books until I found what I wanted: one of the occult encyclopedias.

  Reading his journal and the grimoire had caused a thick fog of depression to circle my consciousness like a psychogenic vulture, but when I read the section on Aritenkhede, the vulture landed and wrapped its huge black wings around me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Aritenkhede was the ancient Katoremsien god of Khanutor, the underworld. The personification and deification of evil, darkness, death and chaos, worshipers would often evoke Aritenkhede in order to kill enemies or resurrect the dead. When summoned, he would most often appear as a giant cobra or in humanoid form.

  The highly secretive Order of Aritenkhede still exists today and is said to include many well-known and influential members of society.

  ‘Worshipers?’ I said in astonishment. ‘They worshipped it and still do? Oh God, what has that fucking crazy bastard done?!’ I closed the book, slid it back into the cupboard, sat down on the floor, closed my eyes and massaged my forehead with my fingertips while attempting to process what I had just learned. ‘Shit, shit, shit! Gary you stupid sonofabitch!’

  ~

  I slept badly that night. A light sleep fractured by horrible dreams. In one, an excited, wide-eyed Gary dug up Lizzy’s corpse. When he reached the casket, Gary opened the lid. Then the scene jumped and we were standing beside her headstone and looking down into the grave, Lizzy’s corpse covered in fresh blood.

  He turned and grinned at me, a maniacal look on his face. ‘Any time now, bro. Any time.’

  ~

  It was that dream which dragged me back into my office the following evening, back to Gary’s journal.

  June 25, 2015

  So I’m busy studying The Grimoire of Masdael, working harder than I ever did in school as I need to have a consummate understanding of Katoremsien magick.

  July 13, 2015

  Ranching, studying. Ranching, studying. Ranching, studying. Ranching, studying.

  July 14, 2015

  The ritual that Lizzy wants me to perform is pretty gross. Some of the stuff I’m supposed to do is heinous. I can’t do it, I just CAN’T do it. There is NO way that I’m going to commit murder in order to bring Lizzy back. There has to be another way.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I muttered. ‘I thought I’d lost you, Gary.’

  July 15, 2015

  As I suspected would happen, I got an earful from Lizzy, although she did say that she understood and commended my morals. However she also said that in this case, murder was the wrong word. Basically, this was her argument: if someone is terminally ill and suffering, or is undiagnosed and about to start suffering, then killing them could be equated to assisted suicide because I’d be ending their pain; I’d be doing them a favor. I understand her point of view although I don’t agree with it. Euthanasia has been on the news recently and I really feel for those who are in great pain and want to die, but technically it’s still murder and I can’t justify that. She also said that I know someone who has leukemia – not yet diagnosed - and that person would be perfect. When she told me who, I couldn’t believe it.

  I found it hard to understand Lizzy’s attitude. I didn’t think she could be so cold hearted and ruthless. She’s not at all like the person I thought she was. Could she be so desperate to come back that it’s skewed her morals? I dunno. I need time to think this over.

  July 17, 2015

  More nagging, cajoling and arguing. She won’t give up and her point of view is very persuasive, especially when she gave me a glimpse of the future and showed me what this person who has leukemia would go through. Still not happy with what the ritual entails, though, not at all.

  July 18, 2015.

  Fuck it, I’ll do it. She finally convinced me. In short, Lizzy said that if I didn’t do the ritual we would never be together and she would stop coming to “the bridge” as she called it and I’d never see her again. It’s not like I have a choice, is it? And anyway, if I’m actually preventing someone from experiencing months, if not years of pain and depression, then Lizzy’s right: I’m doing them a favor and releasing them from their suffering. I genuinely believe that now.

  ‘You thought that murdering someone was justifiable if they were terminally ill?!’ I shouted. ‘No! NO!’ I threw the journal onto the floor and stood up abruptly, my chair slamming into the wall, and walked away from the desk, my head in my hands. ‘FUCK! FFUUUCK!’

  I couldn’t accept that my brother had decided to dig up a corpse and then commit murder in order to resurrect it. It was too much. Reading Gary’s journal made it feel as if it was happening right now, that I was involved, if only as an unwilling observer. I didn’t want to read on, fearing that Gary’s later entries would further destroy my love and respect for him.

  Leaving the journal were it lay, I walked outside and closed the door.

  ~

  A week passed before I could pick up Gary’s journal again, a morbid compulsion to learn the truth about him pulling me back to my office one afternoon when I should have been outside working.

  July 19, 2015

  Man, this is tough going. I have to somehow find a piece of Lizzy’s clothing. How the fuck am I going to do that? I’m seeing her less and less now. I dunno why. But it’s not every night. I’m getting kinda desperate.

  July 20, 2015

  So last night I went to bed and ‘woke up’ in the graveyard. She wasn’t there. Last week I didn’t ‘go’ anywhere for four nights out of seven. No dreams, nothing. Last night I walked around, calling her name. It was horrible. This is where we usually meet, by her grave. Then go on and do stuff. This totally sucks, man. Haven’t spoken to Lizzy in eight nights now.

  July 21, 2015

  Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to drive into Eureka. An occult shop there has lambskin parchment. I called em yesterday and asked.

  Tonight I’ll have to dig Lizzy up. Not looking forward to that. Gonna freak me out, seeing her. She’ll be all gross and rotting.

  July 23, 2015

  Oh man, that was NOT cool.

  I took a nap after dinner, then went out at 10 p.m. Drove to Redwood Hill Cemetery and hid the truck as best I could just in case the 5-0 were rolling around. It was a cool night and the sky was clear, but there wasn’t much of a moon as it’s barely into its first quarter. The main gates were padlocked but that wasn’t a problem as I did a recce yesterday
while pretending to visit the folks’ graves. I’ve discovered a way in right at the far end of the cemetery in the old section. There’s a door that’s almost hidden by climbing vines which leads to an old logging road. The forest is literally on the other side of that. The door’s also padlocked (on the inside) because the actual lock is busted, but I went back after McFadden had locked up and did a trial run. There’s a big oak right next to the wall, so I just climbed up that, slid along a branch and then dropped down into the cemetery. Picking the lock was easy as it’s a cheap piece of shit. The door was difficult to open, though, but I got it open enough to get in and out okay.

  So I grabbed the shovel, pick, camping lantern and a sod cutter and went in. It was real spooky in there as I walked up to Lizzy’s grave and I felt like a criminal, which I suppose I am now.

  I’m in good shape, but it still took me a long time to get to the coffin. After sixty-five years in the ground, the wooden casket was in a bad way and easy to open, despite it being a chunky mahogany thing that must’ve cost mucho dinero. First thing that hit me was the smell. Oh God, it was gross. To think that she was the cause of it. Horrible. It was so, so hard to see my beautiful Lizzy all decomposed, but it wasn’t quite as bad as I’d imagined. She’s just a skeleton now covered by a rotting dress, the same one I always see her in, although all shitty and moldy now.

  I’d brought three thick blocks of wood, about two feet in length, to wedge between the lid and the casket to keep the lid open and stop it from crashing down on my head. After I’d cut off a piece off her dress, I tried to figure out what parts of her I could take. In the end I chose the forefinger bone from her wedding finger (I thought that was fitting, considering I want to marry her) and a clump of hair as backup. I was amazed to see that. I’d have thought it would’ve rotted away by now. Taking them off her was gross and felt totally wrong, but it had to be done and I knew she was cool with it. I put the bone, hair and piece of cloth into my pocket, closed the lid, climbed out, filled the hole back in and put the sod back as carefully as I could. It didn’t look too bad, although if McFadden takes a close look, he’ll probably notice. Fucking hope not. With any luck he won’t.