by S Gepp
"We're looking for a book," Julian replied in the same hushed tone.
Troy looked around at the rows and rows of shelving. "Well, duh," he shot back.
The old man seated behind an antique desk glared at them. They both shrank back a little, then giggled like the schoolboys they were and hustled away from him. "Okay, so what's the book?" Troy asked. "You've been way mysterious about this."
Julian's smile had not faded. "You know how we've been sort of doing the whole knowledge-is-power thing," he whispered, and yet he still cowered as his voice echoed through the empty corridors created by the tomes lined up all around them. "Well, I heard there's a book here that'll suit what we're after—knowledge we should not have."
"So, why do you need me?"
Julian stretched his arms out. "This is a big place," he said. "Two are better than one. And, before you ask, if we got any of the other guys down here as well, then, well, shit, with our carrying on, there's a chance we'd be banned for life."
"You're kidding," Troy smiled. Julian merely shook his head, and Troy looked nervously around. "Okay, so now I can ask… What the hell is this place?"
"Book repository," Julian explained. "The sorts of books that are never actually borrowed but are still thought to be of use. This is basement level one, and down the stairs is, obviously, level two. But if we want to go all the way down to basement level three, we'd need to get written permission from the Dean of our faculty."
Troy's smile was condescending. "Jules, we're not at uni yet," he reminded his friend.
Julian hushed him quickly, then pulled out a student ID card that indicated he was enrolled in undergraduate science. Troy struggled to stifle a gasp and decided that now—and especially here—was not the time to ask where he'd managed to get it.
"So, what are we looking for then?" Troy asked finally, gazing over the spines of the volumes, the leather-bound, the faded, the ripped and torn, the old and decrepit.
"A textbook. Matriculation chemistry, pre-World War Two, say nineteen thirty-two, thirty-three. It's called Chemical Processes or Chemistry Processes," he explained.
"So why are we looking for that?" He was confused; what could be in an old chem textbook that wasn't in their current one? Surely the standards of education hadn't dropped that markedly in fifty years.
"There's some awesome pracs in there. Making grain alcohol, making base anesthetics, and—" His grin suddenly returned. "—making nitroglycerine and base LSD."
"What?!" He quickly covered his mouth.
"Look, back then, only the rich and super-intelligent did matric, especially something like matric chem. They were the elite of society, and people thought they could be trusted with that sort of info."
"Hang on. How do you know this isn't some sort of urban myth or something?" Troy was immediately suspicious.
"Grandpa told me about it a couple of weeks ago. He asked me about my chem lessons, and he told me what they did back then." Julian's enthusiasm was quickly overwhelming Troy. And if Dr. Victor Worthington, one of the most highly regarded old scholars of their school, said something, then it was undoubtedly true.
"Okay. So, now what?" Troy looked about eagerly.
"You check in teaching resources, I'll go to the science section."
"And you're sure it's here?"
"If it's not here, then it's not going to be found by us." And with that less-than-hearty endorsement, they separated.
Thus it was that Troy, searching down in a corner of basement level two, found the book. Not the one they had come to find, but a book that intrigued him nevertheless. It was clearly out of place, stowed in a recess behind a series of grammar textbooks dating back to the first decade of the twentieth century. The pages were yellow, some spotted with green, and at some point in its life, a bookworm had drilled through the top corner. A Treatise, Examination, and Relation of Nefarious Rituals in the Moor Country by one Dr. Rev. B.L. Barnes; the front splash page gave its publication date as 1877, this edition from two years later. He could not believe it. He was holding a book one hundred and eleven years old. He flicked through it, and the smile that crossed his lips was not one of elation, and yet it was scarily genuine.
Chapter Six
2012
To Francis, that night felt like a bad dream that he was being forced to walk through, one that he couldn't wake from no matter how hard he tried.
The body was still on the floor of the holding cell. At least they'd cut him down, Francis decided, but that was the only small mercy to be thankful for.
The officers on duty barely acknowledged his credentials as they allowed him into the corridor so he could peer through the trap in the cell door.
The eyes were open, bulging out and staring up at nothing, but imploring all the same. The swollen, purple face looked barely human, its tongue filling the mouth, trails of mucus streaming out from the nose. His jumper was still wrapped around his neck, hiding any marks. Frances tried to look up, but the angle was awkward, so he couldn't tell where the deed had been done. Not that it mattered.
He couldn't help but gaze again at the corpse, with its permanent expression of confusion and begging. He cocked his head to one side. The left eye was blood-shot and the cheek beneath it definitely larger and more discolored than the rest of the face. A smudge of blood sat in the corner of the mouth; just a smudge, but now that the initial shock was wearing off, to Francis it stood out starkly. He cast a quick glance at the officer beside him, then back at his old high school friend.
"All right, counselor, I think that's enough." The officer's tone was firm and not a little threatening. Francis had no doubts that Troy had taken his own life. But he also had no doubt that Troy's circumstances had deteriorated substantially in here after Francis had left him. A suicide by name; so, what was it by any other term?
"Thank you," he responded blandly and hurried away from the scene. He could not bear to even be in the presence of that body any longer.
The questions only really hit him clearly in the car as he guided it home. And with the questions came the tears, tears he had thought some degree of professional detachment would save him from. He wiped his face with a hand and tried not to think, but still, the questions kept forcing their way to the forefront of his mind. Had Troy really killed his beloved son? Had he subsequently committed suicide out of sheer guilt? Or had he given up, seen his life as worthless, blamed for a death he had not perpetrated, given standard police or prison guard treatment in the cell? Was the lack of alcohol even a contributing factor? How much of that time twenty-one years ago had been an influence here? Just what had gone on in that head of his?
He pulled into the driveway and sat there behind the wheel of the car, trying to center himself, the only sounds reaching his ears the ticking of the engine as it cooled down. He knew he should get inside; the need for another drink or two was building up in him like he had never felt before.
He closed his eyes. His mouth was dry, and his brain wanted to relax, wanted to shut out the world. But was alcohol the answer? And with that came another thought: Was this alcohol debate what Troy had gone through every day of his life?
Oh, dear God, Troy again. For with the thoughts of that man came unbidden the final, purple-faced image. His eyes shot open, letting loose a fresh flow of tears.
The movement out of the corner of his eye was fast but stood out in the dark night. A flash of white. A touch of gold. He turned his head sharply, but there was nothing there. What on Earth had that been? His brain was playing tricks on him; now he was seeing the same delusions Troy claimed to have seen on the night he…
"Nathan!" He did not know or care how or why, but his son suddenly filled his thoughts.
He threw the car open and sprinted to the house. He fumbled stupidly with his keys before yanking the front door open and…
"Dad? Dad? Please, Dad, please…"
He banged the door to the front room open.
Blood sprayed up in a sudden fountain of glowing sc
arlet, adding to the already horrific mess about the place.
"Shit!" he screamed and rushed to Nathan's side. The desk had broken, and the tower of his PC had dropped down so the corner had sliced into his thigh, ripping open a deep, ragged hole.
His son's eyes looked in his direction, but there was no focus to them. "She was… beautiful…" Nathan murmured weakly.
"Oh, shit," Francis groaned as yet another geyser pumped forth. "Shit, shit, shit." Nathan's eyes closed, and the next spurt was a lot less intense than those that had preceded it. "Shit," Francis whispered as Nathan fell limp to the floor beside him. "Oh, Nathan. Shit."
1991
"I can't do this." And with that, one of the hooded figures, the one with the bowed head, moved backward, away from the bag in the center of the human ring, a bag that had fallen silent and almost completely still.
Glances were hurriedly exchanged before a second shrugged his shoulders. "We're not going to go through with it anyway," he said and followed the first.
The faces did not need to be seen to know that confusion now reigned.
"Hang on." A third suddenly broke ranks and chased after them. Three of the other four dropped their eyes, surreptitiously looked at one another, then finally followed the rest.
The final figure, the first to have drawn his knife, remained behind, his eyes fixed on the black plastic-clad object. "Shit," he eventually growled and trudged after the others, leaving just the bag in the poorly lit clearing.
By the time everyone caught up with the first, the light from the braziers was barely a vague glow. "What in the fuck are you doing?" Luke threw his hood back and grabbed the arm of the first one to have left, shaking him.
Francis's hood fell from his head at that. "We can't seriously do this," he hissed. "It's fuckin' insane!" His gaze fell accusingly onto Troy, as the last to leave came close and dropped his cowl.
"But it's for us! It's for our future!" Luke shot back.
"This is just a joke." Francis resumed his march away from the others.
Brandon grabbed his arm. "But it worked once already," he stated.
"Twice," Sean corrected, but his comment went virtually unnoticed amid the heightened emotions.
"I don't care," Francis returned passionately. "A chicken's a chicken, but this…"
Silence fell over them. He was, of course, one hundred percent correct. But another thought entered their minds—they had gone too far already, but was it too far for them to realistically turn back now?
Chapter Seven
2012
Sean opened the door of his house, and Brandon was taken aback by how much weight he had lost in the ten days or so since his son's funeral. "Hi," he croaked, offering Brandon a limp, moist handshake. "Come on in."
"Th-thanks." Brandon simply could not hide his surprise or concern as he followed his old friend inside his large home.
"Can I get you a drink or something?" Sean offered.
"Just a water'll be fine," Brandon replied, looking around at the surroundings. Sean had done well for himself, if the material possessions on display were any indication. They made their way to a dining room, where Sean left him to go through a set of swinging doors into a large kitchen. Instead of taking a seat, Brandon strolled casually around the room, looking at the walls. The pictures and photographs and framed certificates seemed to have been placed at random on the walls, in various positions and at various heights. He looked at one and saw Sean in his gown at his university graduation, and next to that, a slightly overweight woman in similar dress—most likely Sean's wife's own graduation. Then there was a gap and then a picture of a young woman holding a trophy.
He looked closer at the gap. There was a faint yet distinct change in color.
A picture had been removed.
He moved quickly to the next gap and was faced with the same discoloration. And the next, and then three in a row, then two more. A pair of vacant areas stood out amongst the trophies on the mantelpiece. A large area on another wall was empty.
Where were the pictures of Simon?
"You all right in there?" Brandon spun in surprise and caught a glimpse of deep resentment and suspicion cross his old friend's visage.
"Yeah, sure," he smiled, accepting the offered glass. "Thanks."
"So, why'd you come over?" That suspicion was definitely there, deliberately unconcealed.
Brandon smiled as well as he could. "I came over to see how you're doing," he stated softly.
Sean stared at the glass of bourbon and Coke in his hand. "Why so concerned now?" he asked bitterly. "After I transferred my studies, I barely heard from any of you. Hell, I don't even know how you got invites to…to… Oh, Christ." He started to cry then, the sobs running through his whole body in huge spasms, his shoulders heaving as if in physical pain.
Brandon walked carefully to him and placed his hands on the upset man's shoulders. Sean barely acknowledged him. "Can I ask what happened?" he whispered.
"You know how it was a car crash," Sean sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Well, it was worse than that. They said it looked like he swerved to avoid something, slammed into the back of a truck, a sheet of corrugated iron…it went…the window…his head… Oh, for fuck's sake."
Brandon watched uncomfortably for a brief while before patting him on the shoulder. "What about your wife, your daughter?" he forced himself to ask.
He shook his head. "Robyn's staying with Teresa; remember, my sister?" Brandon nodded. "Celeste is… oh, Christ, man, she's been sedated. She's in the hospital, man. It's killing her." He looked at Brandon through puffy eyes. "We lost our youngest at birth, hell, eight years ago. This brought it all up again. We got home from Simon's funeral and Celeste just lost it. She screamed and blamed me and…and…and it was fucking awful. Every single mistake from the past nineteen years was dragged up and thrown in my face." The tears increased. "But you know the only thing I could think of?"
Brandon shook his head, almost afraid to ask.
"Come on. Brandon Cornelius, investigative journalist, surely you can work it out?" Sean was mocking him, something that really did not sit well. Had the separation been that bad? Which separation? he suddenly asked himself and shuddered a little.
Brandon's face fell. "Okay, I know," he whispered, stepping away. "Look, there's no easy way to tell you this," he went on, changing the subject deliberately. "I also came to say that…well…that Troy's dead. He…he hung himself in a holding cell."
Sean's face grew even paler. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. He fell into a chair, looking like he'd been punched.
"Sean, he killed his son," Brandon muttered, forcing himself to continue. "And Francis's eldest is in the hospital. He might lose his leg."
Sean slumped backward, staring at the wood-paneled ceiling. Then: "Christ, man, what the fuck's going on?" His eyes fell on Brandon, and there was a brand new emotion in them—sheer, unadulterated panic. "It's because of… oh man, it is, isn't it?"
"It can't be," Brandon hissed.
Sean did not reply immediately. He merely finished his drink and let his head drop forward so his eyes caught Brandon's like spotlights. Then: "But it is, right? Simon died on September nineteen—" He swallowed back a fresh bout of tears. "—and doesn't that ring a bell? Doesn't it?" He was sobbing so badly Brandon thought he was going to go into cardiac arrest.
"How can it be?" Brandon finally asked. "It was all bullshit."
"Was it bullshit to Teresa after that accident?" Sean retorted.
Brandon had no response. All he could do was turn and stride out of the house, not once looking back. He just had to get away. Sean's terror was a contagion that had well and truly infected him as well.
1990
"You stole one of their fucking books?" Julian could not believe what Troy had told him.
"No-one noticed," Troy smiled. "Besides, it's old and crappy, and you found your textbook and wrote everything down from that, so it looked like we did what
we came to do." The grin turned into a little chuckle. "Once we got to writing, that old fart barely took notice of us. We were just two more nerds who'd come into his lifeline stuck alone in the cellar. Real words, reading and writing. Like we were going to steal anything."
"But if you're going to steal a book, why a useless one from more than a hundred years ago?"
Troy gazed at him seriously. "Knowledge is power. That's what you've been saying. Well, we want power. This—" He held up the book. "—could be something cool."
Julian snatched the book out of Troy's grasp and flicked through its old and fragile pages. His eyes widened as he went, and he shook his head even as his mouth fell open. "Have you lost your fucking mind?" Julian eventually asked incredulously.
"What?"
He held the book up. "Satanic rituals? Seriously?"
"It's worth a go."
"How do you work that out?" Julian felt a wave of all-encompassing anger start to rise.
Troy gazed at him strangely, the smile fading. "Anything's worth a go," he stated. "If it fails, then our knowledge is it's shit. But at least we'll know."
"Of course it's going to fucking fail! It's magic, hocus pocus, ooga-booga bullshit!" He paced around. "For fuck's sake, this isn't Dungeons and Dragons. This is real fuckin' life!"
"And you know this because?" Troy was now goading him and enjoying himself while doing it, which only served to make Julian more furious.
"Because it's logic! Magic flies in the face of logic!"
"Thank you, Mister Spock."
Julian rolled his eyes. "Look… Listen, it's just a waste of time! It simply won't work! It…"
"Prove it."
Julian opened his mouth to rebuff his friend, but no words came out, until, finally, "I can't prove it; I just know."
Troy's smile suddenly returned. "That's what the priests at school say about God." He laughed. "You don't accept it from them. Why say it now?" He cocked his head and briefly chewed his inner cheek. "And don't tell me you're not curious about this, even a little bit."