That Hoodoo, Voodoo That You Do: A Dark Rituals Anthology

by Tim Marquitz

  Tyson gathered his things and made his way down the stairs and back to the parking lot. The security guard was still gone from his post. Too tired to celebrate another successful offering to the gods, Tyson drove straight home. There were two more sigil points within the building that needed to be consecrated before the gods could be awakened, and he knew he would be expected to fill them soon. The darkness would not be patient this close to achieving its purpose.

  #

  Tyson barely remembered the drive, the last of his energy spent trying to keep his eyes open. He stumbled inside only to hear his alarm clock wailing. He silenced it and dragged himself into the shower. The water scalded his wounded flesh as he washed away the night’s work, but it did little to revive him. On his way out the door, he downed another energy drink and a handful of caffeine pills. They gnawed at his stomach as he made his morning rounds, but the pain kept him upright.

  Manning gave him the usual greeting, once again sidetracked by the presence of food, which Tyson had barely remembered to collect. He only wanted to get the day over with so he could snatch a few hours of sleep. The darkness would be waiting for him.

  Work was an incomprehensible blur, but Tyson struggled on. He’d checked on Vanity and was happy to see she was still hidden away. He was one step closer.

  With the adrenaline of swinging a hammer and the caffeine roiling in his guts, he made it through until the work day ended. When he ambled through the door at home, the darkness greeted him, just as he’d known it would.

  Come the darkness, you must hunt again. The gods await.

  Tyson looked to the mirror and nodded, too tired to defy the mandate. He laid down for a short nap, but the caffeine he’d downed just before leaving work conspired against him. Consciousness flickered and the blackness of sleep settled over, only for him to pop awake with a start, time and time again. He lay in his hazy stupor for hours, alternating between snores and staring at the ceiling. Tyson rubbed at his temples. His head throbbed, and his eyes seemed to swirl inside their sockets. He knew if he stayed in bed any longer, he would never wake up in time to find another victim.

  He didn’t want to risk angering the darkness, so he got up and went for a jog, circling the block over and over until his feet throbbed and his head felt as though it would spew his brains across the asphalt. Tyson returned home at twilight and showered, going over the last of what he needed to do. At last, night settled in.

  Once again he sat outside a strip club, this one across town from the one where he’d picked up Vanity. He drank a double-shot espresso, holding it with both hands to keep it from spilling as he looked out over the steam. It took longer for a lone girl to come creeping out of the club than it had the night before. Tyson nearly cried at seeing her. He inched the car forward, desperate to be done. Flutters of excitement mingled mutely under the weight of exhaustion.

  He called to the woman, waving the money he’d used to draw Vanity in. Thin, the dancer’s arms bearing the scabs of her habits, she didn’t hesitate or ask questions. She was in the car seconds after he waved the money. Tyson tossed the cash in her lap and had to fight her off before he’d even gotten the car out of park. She was dying to fix. She was fixing to die, Tyson thought. He chuckled at his joke, and the stripper glanced over at him. He forced a pleasant smile and explained away the oddness of his random laugh. Things had come too far for him to make her suspicious.

  Tyson went into his spiel and offered her food and great view, and even stopped to hook her up with a fix on the way. She shot up on the drive, and after that, it didn’t matter what Tyson said. She lolled in the passenger seat all the way to the parking garage.

  His own head swimming, Tyson struggled to carry the replacement blanket, his cooler, and the giggling and stumbling dancer up the stairs of the tower. He regretted his long jog, right then. His calves burned at every step. At the nineteenth floor, he dropped his burdens and struggled to spread the blanket out. Unlike Vanity, the woman whose name he hadn’t even bothered to ask wasn’t remotely interested in the view; at least not the one outside of her drugged-up skull. Tyson dumped her onto the blanket, and she just laughed and stared off at the ceiling. He peeled her shirt away and looked down at her, trying to commit her appearance to memory, though she was hardly a beauty. She chuckled on and on like an asthmatic hyena, making it even harder for Tyson to become aroused.

  The icepick shaking in his trembling hand, he silenced her laughter.

  #

  Tyson woke in his car. The sun glittered off the windshield as he stared without comprehension. He blinked away the brightness and looked around to get his bearings. The outside of his house hovered in his blurry view, and he realized he was parked in his driveway. A sigh slipped loose, but his breath caught in his lungs at the sudden realization it was morning.

  His pulse pounded in his veins as he dug in his pockets for his keys only to spy them still in the ignition. He started the car with a shaking hand and growled as he waited for the radio to show the time. It was almost seven a.m. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he snatched the key out of the ignition and jumped out of the car. Racing around to the trunk, he popped it open only to find it empty. The cooler was gone.

  Tyson ignored the thunder in his skull as he climbed back into the car. He threw it in gear and screeched out of the driveway as the cold reality of what he’d done last night came back to him. The last thing he remembered was killing the stripper. There was nothing after that. He couldn’t even recall coming home. Where was the cooler? The body?

  In a panic, Tyson struggled to keep from speeding. He couldn’t afford to be pulled over now, not with a possible crime scene waiting to be found. His co-workers would straggle in around seven-thirty, but Manning would already be there. The chances were good no one had trudged all the way to the nineteenth floor this early, but he couldn’t be sure. Without the customary burritos to keep everyone lounging downstairs, Tyson had no idea if they had already started their day’s labor.

  At the garage, Tyson whipped in only to find the security guard missing from the booth. He should be there. A cold chill settled over him, but despite the guard being gone, Tyson hadn’t seen any flashing lights or police cruisers parked outside the site. Everything looked normal. Hoping he’d only left the cooler lying somewhere, but had hidden the body, he got out of the car and made his way to the street. A few cars honked at him as he darted across, but he didn’t hear any sirens or voices calling out to arrest him.

  Tyson slipped through the gate and sidled around the building to avoid running into Manning. He didn’t want to have to explain the lack of breakfast or his rumpled look. As he passed through the mirrored hall that led to the back stairwell, he saw the darkness following along. Its whirling presence agitated. Tyson looked away and darted from the hall. He couldn’t face it now.

  Up the stairs he ran, grateful not to encounter any of his co-workers. There was still a chance. He burst from the stairwell, slamming the door into the wall as he did. Its sound echoed through the halls like a gunshot. His heart thudded loudly in his ears and amplified the thump of his footsteps as he ran. As he neared the room where he’d killed the stripper, he heard a muttered voice. He immediately recognized it as Manning’s.

  Tyson froze. He was only a few feet from the door. Against his better judgment, he crept forward at the sound of another voice. This one was raised to panicked pitch. Tyson risked a glance inside and saw Manning standing near the windows, the security guard beside him. The guard ran his hands through his thinning hair and paced in small circles. Manning only stared at the floor.

  At their feet was the stripper. The icepick was visible sticking out the side of the woman’s head. The cooler lay toppled over on the ground beside her body, its contents spilled across the blanket. Still closed, the glass jar rocked with the movement of the roaches inside. The knife lay beside it. Tyson’s throat welled into his throat, a sudden faintness washing over him.

  Just as he thought to run, he heard the crack
led squawk of the guard’s radio.

  “The police are on their way up,” the voice on the other end reported.

  Tyson didn’t wait to hear anything else. He spun around and ran for the stairs. As he went through the door, he started down only to pause after a few steps. A murder in the building, the police would cordon off the tower. They’d probably already done it. Down was the quickest way into custody. He glanced at the stairwell and realized up was the only way to go.

  The observation deck.

  Tyson heard the darkness speak as he thought the same. It would take the police all day to search the building. He could wait on the deck until he could figure out a way to avoid the authorities. With no stash holes above the nineteenth floor, he could think of no place better, his head churning with his panic. A door slamming below set his feet in motion. He scrambled up the stairs.

  Tyson stumbled onto the observation deck, gasping for breath. He could go no further. The click of the door behind him was like the closing of a cell door. Only prison waited on the floors below. Tyson growled. He hadn’t come this far only to fail.

  He went to the window and set his hand on the cold glass. The darkness met his eyes.

  You have failed.

  “I know, I know,” Tyson shouted as he tried to look beyond the darkness. It was all he could see. He’d come so close. Eleven bodies lay entombed in the walls of Kellerton Tower, and another had been killed within its walls. He hadn’t finished the ritual, but the blood had been spilled. It had to be enough.

  “Only one more; one more.” He pressed his cheek against the glass, “Please, help me. I’ve done all you’ve asked. Give me one more chance to finish.”

  The window trembled against his face. Tyson pulled back and stared once more into the darkness. Heat wafted off the glass and dried the tears he hadn’t known he’d shed.

  “I’ve come so close…please, do not forsake me.”

  Silence was his answer.

  Tyson felt the weight of the air in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. There was nothing left. He staggered from the window and reached for the door, heedless of where he might go. A whispered voice stayed his hand.

  You have failed them, but the gods might yet offer you mercy.

  Tyson spun about. “Tell me what I need to do.” He raced to stare at the darkness roiling in the window. “Tell me!” Spittle dotted the glass.

  You need only to surrender. Come unto me and you may yet serve the gods.

  “Yes, yes…I am their servant, now and forever.”

  Then come to me before the mortals steal you away. Be one with us.

  Tyson stared at his reflection, the swirling blackness that obscured his features, and smiled. Salvation lay before him. He would see the gods yet. They waited for him, their loyal servant.

  Without hesitation, he threw himself into the darkness.

  There was a loud crack, and Tyson felt its sharp embrace. The bright light of day burned his eyes as the wind lapped at him, the brilliant shimmer of the building hurtling past. The world screamed in his ears. Tyson turned his gaze to the sky as he fell. A storm cloud gathered at the summit, its darkness swallowing the spire atop the tower. Tyson smiled.

  They’d come at last.

  Severed

  Brandon Ford

  Staggering through the night, he took slow, careful steps. His torn clothing hung listlessly from his weak shoulders. Shredded fabric swayed with the impetuous wind. He wanted to move faster, pushing his legs to carry speed, but though he was willing, his body was not.

  The night was dark. Pitch black. A crescent moon shone down upon him while a persistent mist billowed past. Dirt crunched beneath his feet and he could only see a wide, empty stretch of land spread before him. He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. He had no clue as to where he was traveling. But somehow, he knew he had to push on.

  A strong, unyielding gust of wind swathed him and instantly, he lost balance. Toppling to the ground, face down in the dirt, he could only lie there for several wearing moments after that. He was drained. Couldn’t move. There was nothing to pick him back up again.

  You’ve got the keep moving, the voice in his head then called. You’ve got to keep going.

  He flattened both hands against the soft earth and pushed, forcing his way back up again. He grunted and moaned, exerting himself in the strenuous effort. More confused than he’d ever been, he began to wonder what could’ve been wrong with him.

  Finally, he found himself standing upright, his knees incessantly wobbling. Again, he lurched onward, hearing a wolf’s howl far off in the distance and the hoot of an owl perched in a treetop. He had no memory of anything before these few distorted moments and that scared him. He knew not who he was or where he’d been. He didn’t even know his own name.

  Pushing further, venturing God only knew where, this harrowing trek became more and more difficult with every step. Slowly, his energy was draining. His head was spinning.

  Move on, you must move on, called the voice in his head. Can’t stop now. You must keep going.

  But where? Where was he going? And how long before he got there? A thousand questions flooded his mind and before long, he was almost too exhausted to think.

  Again, his knees began to quake and although he tried to steady himself, he fell upon the soft earth once more. Both eyes pinched closed, he landed with a hard thud. Lying motionless, he thought, thought hard, trying to piece together this night. Trying to piece together the life he’d forgotten.

  Nothing. Not a shred, not a drop. No yesterdays and by the looks of things, no tomorrows, either.

  So lost and so defeated, he wanted to weep, but he couldn’t. He managed to force himself into sitting upright, both legs stretched out before him. So frustrated, he balled tight fists and beat at his temples, trying to trigger something. Still, not a trace. Tightening his jaw, he clenched fistfuls of his own hair and pulled. Mounds came free in his grasp and without much effort. He felt nothing. Not a twinge, not a sting. No feeling whatsoever. What was going on?

  Wiping his hands free and watching as the tangled strands slipped from his fingers, he stood upright. Squinting, he stared forward. So much open space, a stretch of land leading on forever. Would he ever get there? And where the hell was it he was going?

  Pressing on, he continued through the darkness and through the sifting mist, forcing himself onward, though he knew not why. Slowly, carefully, he took each step while holding his balance. His weary bones couldn’t bear another unsteady tumble.

  A loud swish cut through the air. Gazing upward, he saw the large, ferocious vulture circle around him, wings spread, a look of fierce determination in its beady little eyes.

  “Get away!” he cried, flailing both arms. “Get the fuck outta here, “ya fat little son of a bitch!”

  “Caw! Caw!” The creature kept on, spinning in wide circles around him, ignoring his pleas.

  “Get the fuck away!” he bellowed again, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. It was as though he was hearing it for the first time.

  “Caw! Caw!” the creature cried in response. It wouldn’t leave him. Followed his every step and ducked in between his flailing arms. Persistent little fucker.

  Twirling about, struggling to rid himself of this nuisance, he felt dizzy. He knew that soon enough, he was going down again, into the clumps of moist earth and into the blades of stemming grass. He tried to regain balance, struggling to remain still and upright, but it was no use. He knew his energy was draining more and more with each passing moment and he knew that soon enough, he wouldn’t be able to move at all. But not yet. Please God, not yet, he silently begged. Please let me get there first.

  Tripping over his own feet, he fell forward, landing with a hard thud. Coughing up clouds of dirt, he awaited the moment his newfound nemesis would strike.

  Just not the eyes, he thought, already making peace with what he knew was about to come. Please just leave the eyes.

  Two feet landed sof
tly against his spine. His head turned to the side, he couldn’t bear to lift himself, or even an arm to give the hungry bastard a much-deserved blow.

  Again, “Caw! Caw!”

  And then the sharp beak punctured his ear as it took a bite.

  He felt nothing, though he knew exactly what was happening to him.

  Another bite, then one more. The ear detached and lay tucked away in the vulture’s pointed beak. With that, it spread both wings and took off into the night, tearing through the skies, disappearing behind the dark clouds above.

  “Oh, shit,” he moaned, more irritable than frightened. He reached up and allowed his fingers to travel. Another clump of hair fell under his touch and the strands slid down the side of his throat. He felt the hole, moist and deep, but not bleeding. Again, no pain, not even when he dug a finger inside and felt his own cold, hard skull.

  Okay, this is getting ridiculous, he couldn’t help thinking.

  That shrill, undeniable will lifted his chin. He pressed both hands to the ground and forced his way back up again. He needed to press on. God, how he needed to press on. Something beckoned him and he felt a welcoming presence far off, far deep in the distance. Though his will was strong and his desire to continue unconquerable, he could not bring himself to his feet. With what little strength he had left, he bent his knees, his hands clawing at the earth as he pulled his way forth.

  Inch by agonizing inch, he made his way through the mist, his head hanging low. One push followed another. He had to get there and slowly, he was getting closer.

  #

  Before long came the start of a new day, the sun lifting from beyond the horizon. He didn’t think he’d make it to morning. His hands and knees remained covered with dirt, blades of grass, and crawling insects. But he didn’t care. Nothing else mattered, nothing in this world but making it there. His trembling hand reached forth and he felt the hard, splintering wood. A short stair led to a bare porch and a closed door. Pushing his head up, he lifted both eyes to the house buried beneath the overflowing branches of a tall oak tree. Old, decrepit, barely standing, the house welcomed him. At first sight, he knew. Knew this was where he belonged. This was the end of his long, strenuous journey. He smiled. Laughed. He was home. But still, he didn’t know where exactly home was. Still, he didn’t know why he belonged here, but he knew there was nothing left for him to try. There would be no stretching miles of exhausting travel. This was home.