by James Maxey
Westcott teaches at 1:30. I have at least an hour. The high hedges block me from sight as I reach his back door. It takes about thirty seconds to pick the lock to his kitchen.
Alas, I’d forgotten about the Chihuahua; the little ankle-biter charges into the kitchen and immediately starts biting my ankles. I snatch him by the scruff of his neck before he can draw blood. He sprays my arm with dog spittle as he snarls. I pull open the oven door, toss him inside, then slam it shut.
With the dog out of the way, I’m free to search the house. I start with the piles of documents on the living room coffee table. Everything proves mundane—papers from the college about changes to an insurance plan, an invitation to a classical history conference, a letter from NPR thanking Westcott for his recent donation, and mounds of junk mail.
I leave the table, realizing that I’ll never be able to read everything in time. Really, what am I looking for? A confession scrawled in blood? The receipt the devil gave Westcott for his soul?
Upstairs, the master bedroom is a mess. The man doesn’t bother to pick up his socks or underwear. Half of the king-sized bed is piled with books and magazines. Coffee cups are stacked on the windowsill. The room smells strongly of dog.
On the wall, there’s a photograph; a much younger Westcott stands next to a woman. Disturbingly, her face has been scratched off. At some point, the photo has been removed from the frame and arrows and knives riddling the woman’s torso have been drawn in with a ballpoint pen. From what I’ve read, Westcott’s ex-wife pretty much got everything but the house in the divorce. I suppose mangling her photograph isn’t that strange, though reframing it and hanging it above the bed does seem a little unhealthy. Still, it’s hardly evidence of black magic.
I open the bedroom closet, and my heart skips a beat. A black robe hangs in a clear dry-cleaning bag. I pull it out, barely believing my eyes. The classic image of an evil cultist is a man in a hooded black robe. Westcott is living up to the cliché! Only, the robe doesn’t have a hood. Instead, there’s a square hat with a tassel in the same bag. Suddenly, it hits me: This is a ceremonial robe—graduation ceremony.
The rest of the hour is equally fruitless. A set of old, leather-bound books proves to be by Charles Dickens rather than Aleister Crowley. The cellar holds picks and shovels . . . and rakes and hoes and other gardening tools. There’s a freezer big enough to hold a body. Mainly it holds steaks and corn-on-the-cob.
With time to spare, I yank the dog from the oven and fling him toward the couch in the next room as I bolt for the backyard. Two seconds after I close the door there’s a thump as the dog hits it, barking wildly.
I shake my head as I stroll away. The devil-dog is the only real evidence that Westcott is in league with evil. What if the monks are wrong about him? What if they’re wrong about a lot of things?
* * *
Brother Anthony scratches his scaly scalp as he reads my report.
“Perhaps the dog is a familiar?” he says.
“Perhaps the dog is a dog.”
“That doesn’t change the basic case against Westcott. He’s a direct blood descendent of Wynn Westcott, the original founder. He’s inherited all the scrolls and magical relics of the order. Then there’s Patterson, the book dealer, who purchased the only surviving copy of the Gibbering Codex. And, most damning, we have the intercepted emails, pointing to a summoning this Saturday.”
“About those emails. Why haven’t I seen them?”
“They would only distract you. It’s not as if they openly discuss their plans. Brother Bacon is still working to unlock the code phrases of the sect. Until then, we—”
“What if there are no codes?”
Brother Anthony furrows his brow.
“What if you’ve intercepted innocent emails and are so determined there’s a code that you read things into them?”
“This is no time for doubt. We know what Westcott intends. The Gibbering Codex contains instructions to open a gate directly to hell and pull forth its most dreaded spirits. We know this requires the prayers of thirteen unholy men, the sacrifice of a virgin, barren soil, and the psychic energies unleashed by millions of revelers on Halloween. You have yet to make progress on any of these leads.”
I throw my hands into the air. “Maybe there’s no progress to be made! First, there aren’t thirteen guys. It’s just four old men who say they play poker. As for sacrificing a virgin, I’ve been reading the papers. Unless they have a volunteer, they’d need to kidnap someone, and no one around here has gone missing. Barren soil? Westcott’s yard fits the bill, I guess. But I’m not willing to chop a man’s head off because he’s got a bad lawn.”
“The threat—”
“If Westcott is so dangerous, why don’t we call the police?”
Brother Anthony frowns. “Ordinary legal authorities won’t understand the evidence. They would—”
I hold up my hand, not letting him finish: “If we went to them, we’d sound crazy. Because it is crazy. Everything you’ve ever told me is crazy.”
Brother Anthony looks shocked. I’m surprised that I’ve said it as well. But, now that it’s out in the open, I have no regrets. I feel—how did Skater put it?—my moment of clarity.
I’ve been raised by men who admit they kidnapped me. I’ve been told my father is an angel. And, yeah, I’ve seen some things that are hard to explain. Things I thought for certain were supernatural. But magicians pull rabbits out of hats and saw women in half. Little kids believe it’s magic.
I’m not a little kid anymore.
Brother Anthony composes himself and says, “You’re behaving like a child, Crystal. If you’re done with your tantrum, we need to discuss the plan for Halloween.”
I head toward the door and don’t look back. “I already have plans.”
* * *
On Friday, I go to the concert with Skater. It’s a musical style called “thrash.” Elvis didn’t prepare me for this. The noise pumping from the speakers is pure chaos. I can’t discern a melody. The only thing musical about it is the muddled pulse of bass beats.
I kind of like it.
“It reminds me of the music in my church,” Skater yells.
“You had a bass guitar in your church?” I shout back.
“Sure! Drums, keyboard, the works. Men would run around the sanctuary on the backs of pews, possessed by the Holy Spirit. Turns out, they were just possessed by rock and roll.”
We wander around the club. Skater knows everyone. People smile and speak to me; mostly I just nod, since the noise makes conversation tricky. A girl in torn blue jeans offers me a plastic cup full of beer. I think it over for thirty seconds, then take a sip. Skater’s right; it tastes awful. Even though I swallow instead of spit, I don’t feel any different. This is what the monks were so afraid of?
Later, we pass an all-night diner as Skater walks me back to the dorm. It’s four in the morning and I’m wide awake. We go in and sit at a booth and I have my first cup of coffee. It’s horrible! It’s my second forbidden-fruit of the night, and the second let-down. I watch as Skater augments his cup with heaping spoons of sugar and three packets of cream. I try the same approach. The coffee turns sweet and milky, the residual bitterness a tickle on my tongue instead of a violent assault. This is good enough it must be sinful.
It’s dawn when we reach my dorm. At some point my hand has slipped into his. He pulls me close and leans his face toward mine, his eyes closed. My first kiss doesn’t go smoothly. I keep my eyes open, worried our mouths will miss. Skater’s stubbly mustache is like sandpaper, but his lips are soft and sugary. His clove cigarettes make them taste like I imagine candy must taste.
I’ve never had candy.
What better day to get my hands on some than Halloween?
* * *
Saturday afternoon, after a day of fitful sleep, I visit Wal-Mart. I stare at the costumes, bewildered. I recognize the witches and vampires, but have no clue what a Darth Vader is. It’s lucky Westcott didn’t have one of these
in his closet.
I buy a nurse costume. Pretending to be someone doing good in the world makes more sense than pretending to be a witch. The costume has an impractically short skirt. I pick up a pair of tights to go with the outfit.
Then I put the tights back.
I go to the toiletries section and find a package of pink razors. I’m forbidden to cut my hair, no matter where it might grow.
As night falls, I spend an hour in the shower, shaving my legs. It’s a painful experience, but once I’m halfway done with the left calf, there’s no turning back. The right leg goes better. A few nicks, but it doesn’t look like I’ve been crawling across barbed wire. The smoothness beneath my fingertips is strange and thrilling. I smile as I think about Skater’s reaction.
After I get dressed, I stare at myself in the mirror, bouncing between excitement and mortification. I’ve tried applying make-up. The lip-stick looks good, but I’m not certain the eye-liner works. That’s the least of my worries; the nurse’s outfit is the most revealing thing I’ve ever worn. With my exposed cleavage and bare legs, I feel naked. On the other hand, I’ve been strenuously exercising since I could walk. My body is taut and toned, a living sculpture I’ve sweated untold hours to polish. Why shouldn’t I show it off a little?
Despite my internal pep talk, I cringe as the door opens and reach for my trench coat. It’s Sherry. She’s alone and, to my relief, looks sober. I barely see her any more; she’s been avoiding me since I kicked out Tim. Jim. Whoever.
Her eyes widen as she catches sight of me in the revealing outfit. Before I can cover up she says, “This is a new look for you, church girl.”
I put on the coat. “I’d stick around to let you tease me, but I’m running late.”
She smiles faintly as she looks me over. “I had no idea you were so ripped. I thought Jim was crazy when he said you picked him up. But you look good. You should show your legs more often.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I glance at the clock, feeling nervous. Is she complimenting me to set me up for an insult? “I really am running late.”
She’s standing in the doorway. I need her to move so I can leave. But she just lingers there, looking like she has something else to say. She presses her lips tightly together and breathes deeply through her nose. Then, she relaxes, and says, “Look, about Jim . . . I . . . I’m sorry.”
I tilt my head, not certain I’ve heard her correctly.
“I never drank that much before,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “I kind of don’t remember the details. But, to hear Jim tell it, you were ready to kick his ass.”
“I’d had a long day,” I say. “I hope I didn’t hurt him.”
“You don’t have anything to feel sorry about. I was out of control that night. I’d only just met Jim. Now, I’ve had a chance to talk to him, and, honestly, he’s kind of a creep. I’m embarrassed that you cared more about me that night than I did. This isn’t easy for me to say, but thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, still wondering if this is a joke. “Does this mean we aren’t enemies anymore?”
“Definitely.” Then, in a hesitant tone, “Maybe we’ll even be, you know, friends.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good,” she says. Then, she looks at my face with a critical eye. “It’s a duty of friends to be honest, and honestly Crystal, your make-up looks awful. Take your coat off. Your date can wait ten more minutes. I’ll have you all dolled up in no time.”
* * *
Skater doesn’t drive, so I’m supposed to pick him up. It’s almost nine when I leave the dorm, pitch dark and chilly. The wind on my bare legs makes me wish I’d bought the tights. I can’t wait to turn on the heat in my car. I look into my purse, finding my keys. When I look up, there’s a red and white dishrag rushing toward my face. I release a stifled scream as a large, strong hand smashes the damp cloth against my mouth. An arm wraps around my waist from behind and jerks me from my feet. I suppose I should fear for my life, but all I can think of is that this idiot’s going to smudge my make-up.
Whoever my attacker is, he’s in for a surprise. I bring my elbows back in swift, hard jabs, connecting with ribs. My attacker grunts, but doesn’t lose his grip. Since he’s holding me in the air, I raise both legs high, then snap them back, my heels connecting with my assailant’s knee caps. Something pops and we topple. He screams as his grip goes loose. I take a deep gasp.
Immediately, I go dizzy. The rag is still near my face, drenched with ether. I cough violently as footsteps charge toward me from a half dozen directions. People rushing to help?
Yes, but not to help me. A hand grabs the dishrag and pushes it back to my lips as strong fingers close around my wrists and ankles. I struggle, freeing a hand, but succeed only in smashing my knuckles into pavement.
Against my will, I inhale. The world spins as the sickly chemical air washes into my lungs. I breathe again, and fade. Distant voices. A dozen rough hands upon me. Spots dance before my eyes. My last ember of awareness smolders, then goes dark.
* * *
I flicker back toward consciousness. I open my eyes, but can’t see anything. My arms are tied behind my back. I’m lulled by the soft rumble of wheels on pavement. Am I in a trunk? The air is still thick with ether. Slowly, I drift . . . back . . . out.
* * *
Fresh air washes over me. Hands grab my ankles, another pair slips into my armpits. I crack open my eyes and see a man pouring liquid from a brown bottle onto the dishrag. I try to speak, but the man turns, in slow, dreamlike motion, and drapes the rag over my face like a shroud.
I cannot fight the embrace of nothingness.
* * *
Flashes of awareness: Cold scissors against my ribs as my clothes are cut away, followed by a cold, silent, void. A glimpse of three men in black robes, whispering gibberish, trailing off to nothing. I rouse to the sound of a small dog snarling, then hear a murmured conversation.
“You’ve confirmed she’s a virgin?”
“The doctor’s sure of it.”
“Sheeeeeeessss perrrrfect . . .”
The voices retreat as I slide down an oily black vortex, never to return . . .
* * *
. . . and then I come back, my spirit clawing into my body inch by precious inch. I’m not lying down any more. My arms are numb; I’m hanging from my wrists. I’m freezing, stark naked. My jaw aches from the cloth stuffed in my mouth. It takes all my strength to open my eyelids. I’m in what looks like an airplane hanger, the concrete floor covered with oil stains. There’s a chalk pentacle drawn on the floor, at least ten yards across. Candles gutter at the points, the only light.
I crane my neck. My back is pressed against a steel girder. My wrists are bound by a thick rope which vanishes into the darkness above me. My legs are also tied. I probe the obstruction in my mouth with my tongue; it has to be the dishrag. The ether has mostly evaporated, but I’m still fuzzy enough not to feel panic. My whereabouts seep into my brain in a cool, matter-of-fact way.
I take a deep breath through my nose. The cold air slices my sinuses. The pain helps me focus. I’ve been trained to escape from ropes. I just need a few minutes to get my strength back.
I don’t get them. A large door rumbles open; an icy wind hits me a few seconds later. Pinpoints of light appear in the darkness. Thirteen shadows advance toward me, carrying candles. They’re chanting, a babbled mix of Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. The men are all anonymous beneath their hoods, but as they reach the pentacle my eyes spot a familiar figure. The thirteenth man doesn’t carry a candle. He’s carrying Westcott’s dog. Little Hercules is silenced with a muzzle of twine. His legs are also bound. The dog shivers, helpless, as the thirteenth man places him in the center of the star.
Ten of the men take positions around the star, five standing at the outer tips, five standing at the junctions where the lines cross. They kneel prayerfully, their foreheads to the ground, arms outstretched toward the Chihuahua.
The dog carrier, the pro
cession leader, and the man behind him all approach me. I can see their mouths and chins beneath the shadows of the hoods, and recognize two of the cultists. It’s no great surprise that the leader is Westcott. He draws a long, gleaming knife from his belt. Patterson stands next to him. He’s carrying a heavy, leather-bound book with iron hinges. The third man pulls a silver bowl from the folds of his robe. My heart seizes as he looks up at me.
Skater.
Patterson opens the book and begins to read. The words of the Gibbering Codex are a long string of nonsense, random syllables, grunts, and clicks. This is going to be a very stupid way to die. Yet fear of impending death isn’t the worst thing going on in my head. The worst thing is feeling like a complete idiot. I thought Skater liked me. He’s been playing me all along and I fell for it.
I can’t believe I shaved my legs for him.
Then Westcott stabs me.
The blade slides in just beneath my belly button, digging deep as he draws a long, curved line toward my ribs. Pain jangles along my spine; sweat erupts from every pore. I arch my back, banging my head against the girder. Despite the gag in my mouth, I scream. It comes out as a low, long groan.
Unable to inhale, I go limp, my head dropping forward. My blood spills into the silver bowl. It fills with disturbing speed.
When the bowl overflows, the three men turn and walk toward the dog. I can barely lift my head. White stars spark at the edge of my vision. The roar in my ears drowns out the chanting.
Skater kneels before the Chihuahua. Westcott bows down, untying the dog’s twine muzzle. Hercules is too terrified to make a sound as Westcott shoves the dog’s mouth into the bowl.
All color drains from the world. I’m staring down a gray tunnel at Hercules, who kicks and wiggles as he drowns in my blood.
The dog swallows.
Then grows. And grows. The three men step back as the twine bindings snap. Hercules is on his back, twitching, as he swells to the size of a Saint Bernard. I raise my head higher, forcing myself to watch. Now he’s the size of a horse, rolling over onto his feet. He whines and whimpers. The dog’s shoulders bulge as tumors like twin watermelons grow beneath his skin. Eyes open near the back of the tumors, followed by sprouting ears. There’s a sickening rip as the bulges split open, revealing mouths. Hercules is now the size of a Brahma bull, with three heads and six eyes that glow red like brimstone.