Cellars

by John Shirley

  “You’re not going to destroy the urn?” Lanyard’s voice sounded dead in his own ears.

  “By no means. That would be…well, suppose NASA blew up the space shuttle they worked so hard for, on the eve of the launch? Now, why would they do a silly thing like that?”

  “I’m not going to help you. That thing down there—I don’t care what happens, what the side effects are—that thing was growing down there. They were growing. Minder was going to put the whole city through a meat grinder, one way or another. I can explain to people—”

  Maguss cocked his head. “Are you joking? If you try to explain, I suppose you might get off with the security ward at Bellevue, as opposed to life in prison. But that would be the best you could hope for.”

  Lanyard looked at the floor. He tried to look through it. “I could feel that thing growing down there—the Head Underneath. I’m not going to help you bring it back.”

  “Oh, it’s still alive. The physical manifestation, in its nice warm embryonic pool is, I’m afraid, crushed, buried under tons of rock. You were a big hit: You really brought down the ceiling.” His eyes twinkled merrily. “But He can’t be killed. He will reappear somewhere else. He grows wherever greed grows, and wherever the self-serving thrive.”

  “I’m not going to help you.”

  “Lanyard—you can’t win. We are genetically programmed to selfishness. Nature conspired against anything ‘good’ in us. Nature defines us, and we must define what is ‘good’ according to Nature. And Nature—our instincts—tell us that self-preservation is good. Over and above everything. And if you work with me, you will have not only survival—safety from the police—you will have success in everything. We’ll see to it. Give to Him and He gives to you.”

  “You’ve been one of them all along…” Lanyard stared at the old man.

  “No. No, indeed. Not one of them. They were impostors. Minder was an upstart. He stumbled onto the urn, and that gave him the power to conjure the thing he called ‘Tooley.’ And that made it possible for him to open the door to Ahriman. But he was a bungler. As evidenced by his current status—I had a lovely vision of it. We enjoyed it awfully. My son and I both saw it: Minder drowning in raw sewage forever. Never quite dying completely.” He shook his head affably, as if at the antics of an eccentric friend. “What an oaf. What a bungler. And what an impostor!” His tone became very serious as he said, “I am the rightful priest of the Order of Ahriman.”

  “I’m not going to help you. Because—because if people act as if nothing matters but their own welfare, then life becomes hell for everyone. Sooner or later, it catches up. Maybe there is no objective Good and no Justice and no real morality—but we’ve got to act as if there is.”

  “Ho ho!” Maguss’ laughter was a little forced. “A shining speech! The sort made by losers, in this world.” He looked at Lanyard with eyes ancient as the stones on the bottom of the sea’s deepest trench. He looked at Lanyard from that deep, dark place, as if considering what he would do if Lanyard fell overboard, into the trench…down where he could reach him.

  Carl, run, get out of there now. The Voices. His Mother’s voice. Carl, hurry, run—

  Lanyard was shaking with rage. “I’m not going to help you!” he shouted, brushing Maguss aside. He strode to the curtains and flung them apart.

  The Ivy League Juggernaut stood there, mountainous, now wearing a black skin-tight T-shirt, yellow boxing shorts, and sandals. And the horn-rim glasses. His arms were one moment loose at his side, an eyeblink later whipping out to strike Lanyard in the chest. Lanyard’s breastbone cracked and he was flung backward; the room’s details were smeared together—he struck the aluminum chair, stumbled over it to tumble facedown on the floor, gasping. He was unable to move for several seconds, wheezing.

  The bodyguard came and took him by the neck and jerked him to his feet. The pain in his chest doubled. Lanyard yelped. The bodyguard brought Lanyard’s head close to his massive chest, both hands around Lanyard’s neck, like a basketball player about to snap-pass the ball to a teammate. He snapped his arms out straight, propelling Lanyard into the wall. Lanyard struck with his shoulder blades, screaming his hurt; the impact jerked his head back, smacking the base of his skull on the wall. The darkness spread out from there, and he was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  “IT IS STILL possible,” Maguss was saying as Lanyard came achingly back to awareness, “that we can save our friend Lanyard from ruin. We may well have to knock sense into him. But I’m sure his instinct for self-preservation will take charge. Perhaps it already has. Oh, put him down, Harold. The poor man is quite limp, he’s harmless. Get us some garbage bags for the girl, please. I don’t want her remains found, the doorman saw her come in.”

  Lanyard was surprised to find that he was on his feet—until he realized he was being held there. The Ivy League Juggernaut—Harold—held him up with a familiar technique, hands in Lanyard’s armpits. Lanyard could feel hot, thick blood running down the back of his neck. He was weak. Too weak to fight. The pain rose and fell in shimmering waves.

  Nausea rose to gag him, to spill over from his lips when he felt Harold lowering him to his knees and he finally made himself look at what they’d done with Madelaine.

  “Oh, gosh,” said Harold, behind him, in a tone that suggested he was offended, “he’s throwing up on himself. He’ll drip on the—”

  “It doesn’t matter, the ritual is quite done. You can go. The bags are in the kitchen somewhere. I’m not sure where—rummage around.”

  Lanyard heard Harold walk away.

  Kneeling, his eyes shut, Lanyard took a deep breath to calm himself. It didn’t work. He forced his eyes open, and looked once more.

  The pet of the Head Underneath had been there. Her breasts had been chewed away, and other tender parts of her were gnawed ragged. The places where Maguss had laid her open were neat-edged, cut with a practiced hand. Madelaine’s remains were blue-white, splashed red, her head pointed away from him, her legs spread, her bloodied crotch opened to him.

  Strange feelings passed through Lanyard. He felt as if the blood in him had turned to crystal, had freeze-dried, and he was empty of anything soft; he was a man of Styrofoam in a shop window.

  What remained of Madelaine was spread-eagled, her blood almost obscuring the magic circle—blood drying on the signs and ancient writings skillfully calligraphed on the floor in red and black. The candles had burned down to stubs. The light was dim, here. Lanyard heard no Voices, saw no squirming power currents. He felt blinded.

  The red curtains were drawn; the windows, on this side, were shuttered.

  Across from him, standing between her thighs, was the jade urn.

  “Harold,” Maguss was saying, “is my son. I think I told you I had someone planted in Minder’s organization? Yes. Of course, he wasn’t there tonight, with you planting bombs. I wouldn’t want to risk his life more than I already had. He’s very dear to me. We’re very close. You mustn’t think I’m heartless, Carl. I’m really quite sentimental. And loyal to my friends. Tooley and Minder were, you know, already suspicious of Harold—it’s hard to hide anything from Tooley. But of course he’ll be working for me now. He’s something you can’t kill for long….Harold, do bring those garbage bags. Will you? I want to clean up.”

  Lanyard realized that the bodyguard, Maguss’s son, was not in the ritual room. He was probably in the kitchen. Lanyard and Maguss were for the moment alone. Lanyard’s strength was just a spark; he fanned it with the breath of rage. He looked for the sacrificial knife, blinking fog from his eyes. The knife lay to Madelaine’s right, pointing toward her.

  Lanyard stood, gathering his nerve and marshaling strength.

  Carl. His Mother’s voice. In his head. Bringing with it a stab of pain. It was hard to hear it. Carl, destroy the urn.

  Lanyard breathed deeply, tensing.

  “Carl,” Maguss said paternally, “you’re in here, seeing what you’re seeing, because I wanted you to look at her body a
nd adjust to the sight. She’s not suffering, Carl. It’s just a mass of cells. Nothing more. You need to face it, and realize that it’s not so awful a reality, after all. Movie audiences regularly salivate over much worse sights. Face it, accept it, and forget it.”

  Lanyard trembled. The spark had become fire. He took a step and, ignoring the howling pain in his chest and head, bent and lifted the urn, for a flicker-moment surprised at how light it seemed.

  Carrying the urn, he, plunged through the curtains as Maguss shouted for Harold.

  Lanyard made for the unshuttered windows. He raised the urn over his head—for a split second he hesitated, hearing a low growling issue from it, seeing the power currents flicker down to caress the demonic figures in the jade, listening to the contradictory voices in his head: Smash it! Hurry! against Put it down carefully, listen to the priest, what you give to us we give back doubly against Run! Hurry! And wasn’t that one Madelaine’s voice? Yes. Smash it!

  He flung it at the window. It smashed easily through the glass and struck the curved bars outside. The urn broke into two large pieces, wedged between the window frame and the bars.

  It had come apart all the way around its larger upper half; a glutinous yellow-brown liquid gushed from the break, sluicing with it an irregular gray lump not much bigger than a fat grapefruit: a human head, withered but uncannily preserved, retaining most of its skin and hair. Its eyes were missing; a long gray mustache trailed to either side of its bitterly clamped mouth. It lay on its side, glaring sightlessly at Lanyard through the jagged hole in the glass.

  Harold and Maguss, forgetting Lanyard, ran past him to the window to retrieve the head and the urn fragments. Carl turned and walked stiffly toward the circle on the floor enclosing Madelaine’s torn body. To the knife.

  I can still kill these bastards, he thought.

  The street noises came loudly through the break in the window. And someone was shouting, “Shit, lookit that, that’s a goddamn human head! Call a cop—hey, there’s a patrol—”

  Lanyard skirted Madelaine’s body, careful to avoid looking at her, and picked up the knife. It was a bone-handled dagger, slippery with blood. He gripped it hard, the blade pointing downward.

  A shadow loomed over him. He turned. Harold was stepping over Madelaine, reaching for him. And Lanyard had a glimpse of Maguss, in the background, stuffing the severed, mummified head into a plastic bag, weeping.

  Harold closed his fingers on Lanyard’s throat. Lanyard lifted the blade high overhead, plunged it deep into the Ivy League Juggernaut’s throat, and yanked it out again.

  Harold screamed and gurgled, clutching at the wound—the gash squirted.beautifully. Lanyard laughed and drove the knife into Harold’s chest, experiencing a deep satisfaction at the meaty parting.

  He pulled the knife free as the big man toppled backward. Harold fell across Madelaine’s remains, dying.

  Lanyard looked up, searching for Maguss. The old man had left the room, probably to hide the thing he’d taken from the urn.

  The apartment’s front door burst open. Two large, freshfaced young cops came in, waving guns haphazardly.

  They saw Lanyard standing over the corpses. One of them retched.

  His partner pointed at the symbols on the floor. Visions of medals danced in their heads. They saw Lanyard turning toward them, the upraised knife dripping blood, blood splashed on his bare chest, his mouth opened to explain—but they didn’t know that he was about to explain. All they knew was that he was blood-spattered and toting a knife and that he already had two victims at his feet and his eyes were insane. And as they cocked their guns they heard Maguss coming from the hall behind them, shouting: “For God’s sake, stop him before he kills anyone else! Shoot!” The younger one had already squared off and drawn a bead. He squeezed the trigger. They shot Lanyard three times apiece.

  “THANK YOU,” SAID Maguss, his voice trembly, as one of the cops helped him to the door. “He was renting the room from me—my son and I heard strange noises—we came to investigate and caught him at—well, you saw. We—we had no idea. And he—my son! He killed my boy….”

  He began to sob.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mister,” the younger cop told him, moved. “We got the man who killed your son. He’s dead. He won’t hurt anyone else.”

  Thank God,” Maguss said weakly, face in his hands, sobbing convincingly. “Thank God you’ve killed that madman.”

  EPILOGUE

  Lanyard was surprised to wake up.

  He’d thought the darkness that had flowed over him at the third gunshot was complete and final and forever. But here he was: in a prison hospital, chained to a bed. In great pain. Remembering the sight of Madelaine’s flayed body…

  Wailing for someone to send him back to the darkness.

  They did—with tranquilizers. But it was a broken darkness, sharded with dreams, visions. His mother’s face. Her voice. Maguss on his knees whispering to a withered human head. Madelaine smiling, telling him it was going to be alright, just hold on. Children screaming in a deep black pit…

  * * *

  THE NEXT TIME he woke there was a round-faced doctor, smelling slightly of bourbon, leaning over him, grunting to himself as he saw Lanyard’s eyes open.

  So you’re back. Been in a coma. Cops almost did for you.”

  “How long?”

  “Weeks—almost three weeks. You’re healing, though. Had a collapsed lung, a bullet pressing the aorta, but you were lucky…”

  “Lucky…” Tilting the plane. Lucky. He laughed, wheezingly. It hurt to laugh so he stopped.

  “How about some morphine?” the doctor asked.

  “No,” Lanyard said. “No drugs…”

  “Suit yourself.”

  * * *

  FORENSIC EVIDENCE SUPPORTED Lanyard’s story. There were others who’d investigated—who knew ritual murders had been going on. They knew he couldn’t have done it all. Maguss disappeared, couldn’t testify against him…

  But still Lanyard was in jail. Prosecutor didn’t want to let it go. How long now, in this concrete and steel pen? Six months?

  He kept busy. The books had come—with the ritual signs he needed. It took some time to make the invocations work. But he had his Gift…

  The prosecutor had secrets. The Voices told Lanyard about them, and Lanyard got a message to the proscecutor—who was suddenly interested in dropping the case…

  But still he was in jail. It didn’t matter where he was. He had no cell mates. It was routine to block out the door with a blanket—no one questioned that. He had the freedom to make the marks on the floor at night.

  They didn’t see him perform the rituals.

  Lanyard knew that if you could invoke a demon, you could invoke the other side too.

  It stood to reason. And one night, Reason stood before him.

  You will soon be released, said the figure of light, hovering over the pentagram. Your blackmail and our influence have done their work. But you know the song. You have sung it yourself: You must serve somebody.

  “I will serve the Good,” Lanyard said.

  Will you serve us, indeed? It must be completely and without reservation—as Anthony did in the desert, though demons tore at his flesh. As Paul did in the Coliseum, though they killed him for their sport.

  “I will serve you,” Lanyard told the angel.

  You will not serve me. You will serve the Higher. There is the One, neither he nor she, whom we both serve. You will leave here soon and find Simon Maguss and destroy his works. You have lost much—but you have something greater. Once more I ask: will you serve, without reservation?

  “I will serve,” Lanyard said. And he added: “I have chosen sides.”

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Shirley is the author of numerous novels, a multitude of short function, and collections of stories—including the Bram Stoker and International Horror Guild Award-winning Black Butterflies. He also writes for screen (The Crow) and tel
evision. As a musician Shirley has fronted his own bands and written lyrics for Blue Öyster Cult and others. His website is www.john-shirley.com.