Necromantia: Vol. 1-3 (Three Book Set)

by Matthew Buza

  “You want me to run to the tree?”

  “Yes, I just need to see. And if you don't mind, please try to move as fast as you can. Once you get to the tree you can stop. Then turn around and on my mark, run back.”

  Isaac's face was thoroughly confused, but he removed his jacket anyway. Isaac executed the down and back as Lazarus timed him on his watch.

  “That is a good time. That is great.” He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a canvas bag with some twine holding the top closed. “Would you mind throwing this bag of material as far as you can? You are a big guy so I'm expecting a good throw.”

  At this point, Isaac was still breathing hard from the sprinting. He took up the bag and released it through the air. The bag crossed the grassy clearance before striking the ground and giving off a small poof of smoke. He looked back to Lazarus, who was smiling.

  “Yes, sir, that will do. Now one last question and I think I'm good here.”

  Isaac was beyond confused. “Sure, what is it?”

  “Are you easily scared?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Yes, scared. What if you were to see something you've never seen before? Would you run or become panicky in any way?”

  “I'm not sure. I don't think I'd be scared. But I'm not sure what this means for the position.”

  “Well, it matters.” Lazarus's voice paused. “It matters a lot.”

  “Well, I have been putting up with Tennison for some time so think I should be just fine.”

  “That's a good answer. We'll see what happens in real life.” Lazarus stood up and reached out to Isaac.

  Isaac slowly grabbed the man's hand and shook it. There was a strength there that Isaac didn't expect and a tingling sensation ran through his arm. The comic relief that just played out washed away and Isaac had a newfound appreciation for the man.

  “I think you will be a good intern. I would like you to start this week on Wednesday. My office is on the south side of Pioneer Square in a red-brick building. Look for my name Lazarus on the door.”

  Lazarus began to walk away leaving Isaac standing next to the park bench.

  Isaac jumped in as the man walked away. “Lazarus, what is the position for?”

  Without turning around Lazarus returned, “I will see you on Wednesday and the dress code is black.”

  The man continued down the path and disappeared around the corner. Isaac fell onto the park bench and stared out across the grassy clearing to the neighboring houses. Traffic was beginning to build up on the streets as people dressed in their finest sped along to church. It had all been too quick as Isaac shook his head and wondered what he was getting himself into.

  The Sink

  The water cascaded down Isaac's face dripping gently against the porcelain sink. The razor sloshed through the water, splashing the soapy foam against the edge before falling back into the dark pool. He stared into the mirror, turning his face slowly and inspecting the curves and slopes of his cheek.

  For him, shaving was always a calming act. Always providing a solitary outlet, a relief, to let loose a well of pent-up energy. Each morning he would stare across at his reflection. A phantom figure in a mirror to review and judge. He took his job as an impartial observer seriously. He was cruel and vicious. He relished being free from harm and retribution. He could take on the task of cutting down a shell of a man and picking up the loose pieces, leaving behind the waste for someone else to clean up. There was no fear of retribution or anger or any type of petty feelings one navigates in normal human interactions. This man was emotionless, a target of his judgment. Just a person on the other side of a framed wall. He enjoyed berating this man. It was liberating.

  Some days, his criticism was a simple expression of disappointment and others would be filled with tirades, insults, and lectures. His words would echo off the walls as he called out the worthless man across from him.

  Why had he failed that test?

  What was he going to do with his life?

  Medicine, really? You're a fuck up, you know that, right?

  The man in the mirror would take the abuse, absorb it. No emotion, or anger, or retorts. He would let it filter down his throat to be digested and shipped up to the mind. At the end of a judging, he could feel this depression lift. He and the mirrored man would be refueled with hope, enough to make it to the next day.

  Today his words were cautionary.

  “Don't fuck this up, man.” He looked down, shaking his head. “You got lucky, just don't fuck this up.”

  He dipped his razor in the sink and brought it down across his cheek slowly. The sound of popping and crackling of the metal reverberated in his ears as it slid down his skin. Hairs and old skin were caught between the blades and left behind a smooth and acceptable landscape. His skin blushed red and awoke flush with new life. He knew he was lazy and facial hair was his excuse to avoid looking at himself. But life periodically forced him to engage the mirror.

  The razor sloshed again in the water. He tapped it against the sink and pulled it up against the throat slowly. He repeated over and over. His face was clean. His eyes closed as he ran his fingers over his skin, his mind searching out for any friction and untouched grain. He felt some and directed the razor to clear the last of the holdouts.

  He could feel the taut skin catch as he pulled, the sharp metal grabbing and pulling before cleaving through to continue along his throat. The open exposed skin screamed as the cold air welcomed it with a furious embrace. Isaac's face winced as he dropped the razor in the water. A meandering red trail had formed, running down his throat and towards his Adam's apple. He reached down and pulled on the toilet paper. Lifting his head, he inspected the cut.

  The blood stood on the edge and fell slowly into the sink. It mixed like ink in the water. Sending out shoots and swirls, catching the shallow currents and mixing slowly in the bowl.

  “Goddammit, you piece of shit.” His voice was venomous.

  He leaned in and splashed the bloody water over his face and stared at the new man. He dried himself with a small towel, tearing a sheet of toilet paper and placing it over the cut. A bright red dot appeared as the paper formed a crude bandage.

  Beneath his hands, the sink bowl continued to swirl slowly, pulling the soapy bubbles in an arc. The blood began to mix as if guided by some unseen force. Isaac's eyes were transfixed. His mind shrunk to a point as the world fell away into a black abyss. His sole focus was the spinning bubbles in the water, his eyes glassy as he fell into a deep trance. From the base of the sink, more blood mixed from the sealed drain. The water shifted from a soft pink to a deep auburn brown.

  Isaac slowly lowered his finger into the water and began to make a circle. The blood left a soft sheen on his fingertip as he mixed the substance. He could feel a tingling warmth coursing through his flesh, radiating a sexual pleasure. Waves of short shocks moved up his arm, ebbing and flowing with pain and numbness. The water was calling for him and his mind was there to answer. He lowered both hands into the sink cupping and pulling a small pool of the red liquid. Errant drops fell back into the water giving off a dull plopping sound. He brought his face slowly to his hands and spread the water over his skin. The red mask covered him as trails fell across his face.

  His hands dropped. He could feel a pulling sensation as if a rope had been tied around his neck. His mind opened up and he rushed back to reality. He could feel himself again and he was in his bathroom. His back strained as he fought against the pressure pushing down. His mind tried to search for explanations but he couldn't find any. Was this some retribution for his assaults? Was this his judgment?

  His heart was pounding as he strained. His back cracked, giving slightly under the pressure. His palms dug into the sink edge as his ashen face strained. He looked up to the mirror out of the corner of his eye to see his reflection blankly staring back at him. The terror rose as a muffled struggle escaped his mouth. His hands were firmly planted on the sink edge. It was the only thing keeping his
head from dropping into the water.

  How could this be happening? he thought to himself.

  The reflection in the mirror continued to stare down. It shook as if caught in a blizzard. The jaws clenched, stressing its teeth beyond the breaking point. The cleanly shaven face pulsed and flexed. Isaac stared up at the reflection knowing that this was the source of his struggle. He knew that the reflection was the one pushing down his shoulders.

  The reflection breathed deeply and exhaled black smoke out from his nose as if a charcoal fire burned in his lungs. The mist enveloped his face, covering it in a swirling wind. Isaac fought back and the muscles in his arms rippled as he pressed down. His mouth hovered a hairs width away from the bloody water. The damp air rushed into his lungs as he gasped.

  The force disappeared and Isaac stumbled back against the wood floor, his body sprawling across a rug. His chest popped as his lungs fought to bring fresh air to his muscles. He slowly lifted himself up and approached the sink. The reflection in the mirror mimicked his every move. He kept his distance and stared down. The water was nearly clear and he could see the remnants of the single drop of blood in the sink.

  He rubbed his eyes and sat down on the toilet. He fought to regain his composure. His eyes showed a nervousness. “Isaac, what the hell are you doing?”

  It must have been a dream, some type of waking dream, or maybe he passed out and hit his head? Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the face and that black smoke. His chest tightened and his stomach felt like a pool of acid trying to burn its way out. He had suffered from anxiety most of his life and it tormented him even to this day. Taking tests at school was a nightmare. He remembered vomiting before high school graduation. He nearly crushed his homecoming date when he passed out walking into the dance hall. His doctor had given him breathing exercises and drills to focus his mind, but they rarely worked. In all his time in Seattle, there was only one thing that was able to calm him.

  Isaac stood and walked out into the kitchen area, the tile flooring popping gently under his steps. He pulled out a small tin-foil ashtray and lifted the large bowl of fruit to reveal two long white joints. From the drawer, he pulled out a small pair of tweezers and took the items to the window ledge. He pulled back the curtain and saw the empty alleyway bordered by trash bags and old cardboard boxes. He lifted up the window and lit the white roll. He pulled back as it disappeared, leaving behind a red amber trail. Isaac held in the smoke for a moment before blowing it out the open window. The cool morning breeze fell in through the screen across Isaac's bare chest. His skin lifted as the chill set in. He pinched the remaining joint with the tweezers and finished taking up the last hit. He could feel his mind relaxing as the stone melted over him. It was a couple of hours until he needed to leave for Pioneer Square. He would be coming down off the high just in time. Until then, Isaac enjoyed relaxing in the window trying to put the event in the bathroom behind him.

  Welcome

  The red-brick building was tucked along a back street on the north side of Pioneer Square. The cracked sidewalks were pushed up by old tree roots searching out pockets of runoff from the metal roofs. A homeless encampment was situated along the far side of the street. The tattered makeshift plastic roofs covered the wretch hiding in rusted-out shopping carts and overturned boxes.

  Isaac walked up the short steps holding on to the iron stair railing. The entrance was nondescript and plain. If he didn't know Lazarus's name, he would have suspected the building to be an empty set of apartments and continued on. Alongside the old wooden door was a small bronze nameplate with the name Lazarus etched in the face. The name was surrounded by two angels wearing skull helmets with dropped horns. Isaac reached for the winged door knocker. It let loose a hollow thud that faded into some distant space. As he waited for an answer, he scanned the front stoop and noticed an empty planter box in front of the short window. It was filled to the brim with caked gray salt and looked to be a protective line keeping the window free from someone or something. Isaac reached out to the touch the edge of the planter as the front door opened. In the doorway was the same man from the park.

  His breathing was firm as his eyes shifted to Isaac's fingertips. “I wouldn't touch that if I were you.”

  “Is it salt?”

  “Yes a…” he paused briefly, “a type of salt. Again, I wouldn't touch that.”

  Isaac nervously pulled his hand back, brushing it against his pants and trying to remove any of the substance that might have drifted through the air. “I'm sorry. I just didn't know why it was there.”

  “Never mind that, come in, come in.” Lazarus waved Isaac through the door. “Come, we've got lots to do today.”

  They walked into a barren and bleak entryway. They were alone except for the spider web in the upper corner of the front door. The door closed behind them and Isaac was plunged into total darkness. His eyes slowly adjusted to the low light. He could see Lazarus's shadow moving in front of him towards the end of the hall where an orange light hung from the ceiling, helping to guide unsuspecting visitors into the basement cellar.

  Lazarus shuffled his feet, giving off a playful swishing sound as he reached the end of the hallway. He turned back to see Isaac slowly making his way along the walls. “Oh sorry there, I like to keep this entryway quiet and dark. Just feel along the walls and follow the light here.”

  Isaac's hand ran over the rough cedar-wood paneling. His fingertips lifted small fibers into the air and he could smell the sweet and sour note of old wood. He reached the doorway and followed Lazarus down the steep stairs to the bottom floor. He could feel a light draft on his face as the air transitioned from a musty wood to a clean industrial smell.

  “Normally we come in through the back, but I figured you'd get lost trying to find the back alley.” Lazarus moved quickly down the stairs like a man who trusted the creaking old panels and who had practiced this descent many times in the past. Isaac's large frame struggled as his shoulders brushed against the wall and his hair touched against the ceiling top.

  “A little claustrophobic, eh?”

  “Ah yes, it is not often I get someone of your size in the facility. Trust me, the bottom floor is better for people of your genetics.”

  They emptied onto the floor and the turn-of-the-century architecture gave way to a large room that felt like an industrial shop. Metal shelves housed bottles and bins filled to the brim. The concrete floors had drains for water and white tiles ran up the walls to the ceiling. Along the far wall were open exam rooms where autopsy tables stood adorned with rolling carts filled with tools and equipment.

  “Welcome to my main office. This is where we typically do most of our work. The other times we are in the field, on location. You are OK with traveling around the Seattle area?”

  The question broke Isaac's curiosity. “Yes, sir. Traveling won't be an issue. I've got a small truck.”

  “A truck? Well, well, that might come in handy.”

  The eagerness could be heard in his voice. “Absolutely, I'm happy to help.”

  “Let's go on a little tour of the place.”

  Isaac followed closely behind Lazarus as they walked across the cold concrete flooring to the empty wall on the far side. Lazarus turned and looked back across the floor. “You can see we have a lot of storage. Everything is cataloged in alphabetical order. We store relics and religious objects on one set of shelves and materials and chemical stores on the other.”

  Isaac broke into Lazarus's speech. “I'm sorry, did you say relics and religious items?”

  “Of course, very often we need assistance with our work and these objects can help with family members and ceremonies.”

  “Ceremonies? I was under the impression this was a coroner's position.”

  “Well, you are right. We almost always deal with the dead here or assist with people and their struggle with the dead.”

  Isaac narrowed his gaze, showing his obvious confusion, but he was determined to give this job a chance. “OK, I'm
just trying to understand what tasking I will need to do.”

  Lazarus smiled. “For the most part, you'll be assisting me in the ceremonies. In fact, that's what you'll be doing today. Your primary role is to help me set up, perform, and close down the performance with our customers.”

  Lazarus walked over to a set of closed doors. He opened them to reveal a large open conference room. The walls were draped in maroon curtains and adorned with yellow accenting light that gave the room an ominous feeling. Isaac's eyes scanned from corner to corner as his feet shuffled along the cheap tile flooring.

  Lazarus turned to Isaac. “I am sure you have questions, but I prefer teaching through doing. It is the best way to introduce people to this profession. Seeing is believing.” He motioned to the closeted wall on the far side of the room, “Inside these closets, you'll find everything you need to prep the room for tonight. I've prepared a list of items and the layout we need.”

  Lazarus handed the rough parchment to Isaac. The material felt old, like a soft felt or a baby's skin. He unfolded the material and reviewed the drawing.

  Lazarus pointed down and indicated key points. “What you need to understand is how important this design is to this séance. We need to copy it exactly. I need the candles in the correct place and the salt poured in a perfect circle. I suggest placing the salt down first using an anchor in the center and some string.” Lazarus turned and started to walk away. He lifted his hand up and pointed to the ground. “The design is key. Especially tonight since the man we will be speaking with was not a shining member of society.”

  It was almost too much to understand all at once. Isaac struggled to comprehend what Lazarus just said. So many words and descriptions that Director Rowe had left out of their initial conversation. He hesitated for a moment and then spoke up. “A séance? Director Rowe gave me the impression this was more of an autopsy position.”