Folding his paper, he stood and pulled the signal cord, his stop approaching soon. He exited the bus and walked to his apartment building, glancing at the mail boxes in the vestibule wall. Was that an envelope? He wasn't expecting any utility bills for at least another week or two. He opened his box to find a lone envelope addressed to him from “Quimby and Howe, Solicitors,” with a return address in London. He locked his mail box and went inside, taking the stairs up to his small apartment on the second floor.
He set his things down absently, wondering if he'd received the letter by mistake. He opened it with a butter knife, and sat down at the small kitchenette table to read.
It said his grandfather had a brother named Edgar who'd settled in England after World War One, spent the rest of his life there, and had left behind one item that he bequeathed to the last living male member of their family, which happened to be Mark. They apologized profusely for the long delay in locating him, finally succeeding by using the new ancestry databases that had become so popular. They'd enclosed a legal release form and a self-addressed, stamped envelope for its return, asking him to please sign and date and then return it to them at his earliest convenience.
Upon receipt of the release, they'd ship the item from his grand uncle directly to him, and would consider the matter properly closed.
Mark was stunned. He now remembered family members occasionally referring to someone "over there," but they were immediately hushed by the others, as though speaking of a secret meant to be kept hidden, a black sheep of some kind. His parents never spoke about him to Mark, and he'd completely forgotten about it until now.
He wondered what this item was—as they'd only referred to it as an item—with no further description. He was positive it wouldn't be anything of value, though. Things like that simply don't happen to him, and this would be no different. Probably a souvenir from the war, or something like that. He signed and dated the release form, folded it into the return envelope, and left it on the table next to his keys, so he'd remember to mail it in the morning.
Weeks passed, and Mark had forgotten about the letter. He arrived home one Friday to find a folded piece of paper in the grate of his mail box. He removed it, and found a note from George, the building superintendent, asking him to stop by when he got home. He walked down the hall to George's apartment, hoping a pipe hadn't burst, or some other disaster, and rang the bell.
"Hello, George . . . you wanted to see me?"
"Hi, Mr. Baker, yes. A package came for you today; they let me sign for it. One minute," he stepped over to a table in his hallway, reaching for something there.
"Here you go," George returned, handing Mark a small cardboard box with labels all over it.
"Thank you, George. I appreciate you signing for it for me."
"No problem, Mr. Baker. You have a good one now." Smiling, George closed his door as Mark examined the box. He turned it over and saw his name and address, with “Quimby and Howe, Solicitors,” as the return address.
So, this was the mysterious item they'd mailed him about. He went upstairs to his apartment, put it aside, and set about making his supper.
Once the dinner dishes were cleaned and put away, Mark sat down and used a pair of scissors to cut the tape securing the box and opened it. Inside was a folded letter, and a small wooden box, once polished to a high gloss, but marred heavily with dents and tool marks. He opened the letter, which apologized for the deplorable condition of the box, stating that this was how it came into their possession, clearly from failed attempts to pry it open.
They ascertained what appeared to be a seam, indicating that it should open, but were unable to determine how to open it. As such, they encouraged him to report any valuables he might find inside to the appropriate authorities for tax purposes, and wished him well.
He set the letter aside, and picked up the box. He turned it over, feeling weight inside it, but seeing no obvious way to unlock it. The deep gouges in it showed many attempts at forcing it open, which hadn't seemed to work. He held it in both hands, and smiled, remembering an old cartoon he'd watched.
"Open Sesame . . ." he whispered, using his thumbs to push up on the top half of the box.
It opened smoothly and easily on hidden hinges.
He was so startled, he nearly dropped it. In the bottom, set in a cushion of black satin, was a ring. It was gold, but a darker shade of the yellow than he'd ever seen in gold jewelry, with a deep blue gemstone speckled with gilded dots, resembling stars in the night sky. Toward the bottom, the dots changed to red, and finally to black at the very edge. The sides of the ring surrounding the stone were engraved with what appeared to be dragons reaching toward the center. It looked like it had been made by hand, not nearly as refined as the rings you might see in a modern display case.
In the top of the case, there was a rolled-up parchment with a black ribbon around it. He removed it, and revealed words etched by hand into the wood itself, "Daemonium Et Dimittere," whatever that meant. Maybe the ring makers?
He carefully opened the parchment and found one lone sentence and a symbol, both clearly written by hand. The sentence simply said, "Do What Thou Wilt," and under that, a symbol with a five petaled flower at the center of a diamond shape, with wings of some sort stretching out to each side:
Mark was thoroughly confused. He'd originally thought the ring had something to do with his great uncle's military background, perhaps a symbol adopted by his battalion, but the parchment and ring design didn't look to be military at all. He carefully rolled the old parchment back up, sliding it back into the black ribbon, and setting it inside the cover of the box. He put the box down on the table, leaving it open. He had a feeling it wouldn't open for him so easily again if he closed it.
"Oh, Uncle Edgar, what the hell were you mixed up with?" he wondered aloud. He looked over at the ring, but never actually touched it. Something about the signet made him a little uneasy, but he couldn't say what or why. He decided to do some research and see what he could find out.
He opened his small Chromebook, hoping Ross had a signal available upstairs. His neighbor Ross allowed Mark to piggyback on his wireless signal in exchange for a few dollars a month against the cost, a deal that worked well for them both. It connected perfectly, and be began searching for more information about the puzzling box and its contents.
An hour later, the notepad beside his Chromebook was full of notes he'd taken, most very disturbing. He wondered how deep into insanity his grand uncle had fallen when he put the box and its contents together.
The phrase etched into the top of the box turned out to be Latin for "Release the Demon." As bad as that was, the phrase on the parchment, "Do What Thou Wilt," was attributed to an Aleister Crowley: a notorious medium and rumored Satanist in England, at about the time his grand uncle had settled there after the war. He found endless references to Crowley, none very flattering, and finally learned that the stone in the ring appeared to be a Lapis Lazuli, rumored to enhance communication with spirits, among other things. He surmised his uncle had met and become a disciple of Crowley's, based on the layout of the box and its contents.
So, he'd received a ring, somehow connected with a very bad man, seemingly for the purpose of releasing a demon of some kind.
In other words, this was all nonsense, the sort of thing that kids tell each other around campfires to scare themselves. He wondered if his grand uncle had come back with severe PTSD, long before it had been recognized, and that led him to this Crowley individual, who clearly preyed on weak-minded followers in his cult, or whatever his following was.
Relieved, and now more curious, Mark lifted the ring out of the cushion in the box. He was surprised at its weight, heavier than he'd expected. The only marking inside the band was the single word, "Asmodeus," but he had a feeling that the gold was real. At this weight, he just might have something of value to declare, after all.
It was large too, clearly made for a bigger hand than his. For the fun of it, he slipped
it onto the index finger of his right hand, and found that it fit perfectly, as if it were made for him.
He held up his hand to look at it, and felt a little lightheaded for a moment. He'd never owned or worn any jewelry at all, but didn't think the skin contact with the gold would cause the odd feeling. As he turned his hand to look from all angles, he realized he felt a surge of confidence, something he wasn't used to at all.
Along with that, there was a feeling of contempt for himself, for allowing himself to be victimized time and time again, simply accepting his fate as though he had no choice. His renewed sense of confidence seemed to assure him that those days were over forever.
He started to remove the ring and put it back in the box, but stopped. He enjoyed the sensations he was feeling, and if they were somehow related to the ring, then why remove it? He closed his right hand slowly into a fist and smiled. Remembering the inscription inside the band, he returned to his Chromebook, and quickly learned that 'Asmodeus' was one of the seven princes of hell, known for lust, and as a revenger of wickedness.
His smile widened as he realized how useful those two particular attributes could prove to be . . .
7:46 AM
Mark Baker opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the brightness in the room, and realized two things.
He was smiling happily, this time from the new dream he'd just had, and he'd also awakened with a painful erection that had nothing to do with bladder control.
He needed a woman, and he meant to have one. Soon.
His new dream had begun the same as before, in the shower after gym class, his eyes closed as he washed his hair, trying to prevent the shampoo from getting in his eyes and stinging them.
This time, however, when the push came, he was ready for it, and spun around quickly to face Chuck Richardson, the captain of the football team, and his tormentor-in-chief.
"What the fuck is your problem, Richardson?"
"Well, what do we have here?" Chuck laughed, "it seems the worm is growing a set of balls!"
He and his friends all laughed, as Chuck moved in closer
"Lemmie show you what it means to have balls, wimp."
As Chuck reached out to grab him, Mark turned to his left and reached up between the outstretched arms, grabbing Chuck by the throat. With more force than he could account for, he easily spun Chuck around and slammed him back into the tile wall, hard enough to break a few of the tiles.
"Hey, leave him alone, Baker!" one of his friends yelled, but Mark paid no mind. He stared instead at Chuck as his grip tightened. He didn't even notice that his hand had grown larger, the fingernails extending out to thick, sharp points.
"No, peasant, the worm has turned, and your time has come . . ." Mark's voice had changed, dropping much deeper in timbre, very rough and raspy. Chuck's friends started to step back, unsure of what was happening.
Mark's thick nails allowed him to press in on either side of Chuck's throat, tearing through the skin, letting him wrap his fist around the jugular itself. The sheeting blood splattered the floor, turning red instead of yellow in this version of the dream.
Chuck's friends started running for the open door, a few screaming as they escaped. Only one or two looked back in time to see Mark rip the jugular and larynx out of Chuck's throat, allowing his lifeless body to drop down hard onto the wet floor. The pool of blood expanded quickly, then thinned as it met the water from the still running showerheads.
Mark got out of bed, whistling as he went into the bathroom to start his day.
Saturday had arrived.
Monday came around much too soon, the weekends seeming shorter all the time now. Mark smiled, remembering the whore he'd picked up on Sunday in the rental car, and all the things he'd been able to do for the first time. His lust had been well satiated, at least for the time being.
He glanced down at the monitor, and clicked on the email button. The latest tirade from his manager, Tessa Marden, about the ongoing quest for higher productivity started a dull throbbing in his temples. He opened his desk drawer and dry swallowed two aspirins from the bottle he kept there, as he deleted the message.
He looked deeply into the stone on the ring and reflected on how he'd fallen into an endless circle of pushing himself harder and harder to satisfy ever increasing targets and to prevent a direct hit on the bullseye he clearly felt on his back. His renewed confidence made him sneer at what a lemming he'd become, and he began planning profound changes for the very near future.
He kept a neutral expression on his face, not wanting anyone to notice anything different about him as he forced himself to get through the rest of the work day.
He turned in early that night, eager to see where his dreams would take him . . . and he soon found himself seated back in his cubicle, at his desk.
The instant messaging application began blinking in the corner of the screen. He clicked on the button, opening the new message.
"Baker. My office, right now," it read, coming from Tessa Marden.
He saved his work and got up, walking to the office in the corner.
"Close the door, Baker."
"What is it, Tessa?" he asked, closing the door behind him.
She got up from behind her desk, holding what appeared to be a spreadsheet printout in her hand.
"I'm getting very tired of constantly reminding you to move faster and get more done. I'm not seeing enough progress here."
"Would you prefer volume or accuracy? I ensure that everything is correct before submitting, you know."
"Don't you dare speak back to me. You'll do what I tell you, or you'll . . ."
The switch had clicked in Mark's head, and he reached up, holding Tessa's head firmly in his hands. She opened her mouth to speak and gasped instead, as his eyes changed from their normal brown color to a fiery red, pulsing in brilliance. He spoke, but it wasn't his voice that came out. This voice was much deeper, very harsh in pitch.
"Listen well, wench. You dare presume that pestilence like you should address me in this manner? You will kneel in my presence, you hag!"
Mark pressed her head downward and back, and Tessa fell to her knees hard enough that she heard bones cracking. She started to cry out, but the pressure of his hands on her head increased sharply, the resulting spike of pain causing her to catch her breath instead.
"You have viewed me with scorn for the last time, woman," he said softly, his rough voice much deeper than it had ever been before.
While holding her head, his hands had grown larger, harder, the nails thick and sharp. He pressed his thumbs on her eyes, pushing inward. Her eyes split open easily, offering no resistance, as the thick nails drove through them, through the stems behind them, seeking what lay beyond.
Her blood pooled quickly in the ruined sockets, streaming out and down, rushing into her throat and closing off the scream she'd just begun. She began choking on the blood as the flow increased from the depths his thumbs brutally plunged.
When his nails reached and punctured her frontal lobe, the severe spasms began instantly, her limbs shaking uncontrollably for nearly a full minute, before she fell completely limp within his hands.
He slid his thumbs slowly back out of the bloody eye sockets, let go of her head, letting her fall heavily to the carpeted floor, smiling as he viewed her prone body.
Mark turned over in his sleep, unaware that he was also smiling.
When he arrived at work on Tuesday, he was surprised to find an active crime scene in place, all his co-workers gathered outside the building, not allowed in.
"Mark, did you hear?" Gloria, the HR rep asked him.
"Hear? Hear what?"
"Tessa Marden was murdered last night, right here in the office."
Mark paled a bit, then recovered quickly, "Oh my God, for real?"
"Yes. I heard a couple of the cops talking, and it sounds really nasty."
Mark had a very good idea of just how nasty it had been. The shock and confusion on his face matched well with those of hi
s peers, but in his case, it was from trying to understand how his dream had leaked into reality.
Gloria turned away to answer her cell phone, and spoke quietly for a few minutes. She turned and raised her voice to address the group.
"People? Listen up, please. I just spoke to corporate, and we're to go back home, and not speak to anyone from the press about this at all. We also have to be available for the police, if they want to interview us, so keep your phones handy. Any questions?"
"Yeah, are we getting paid for the day?" a voice from the back asked.
"As far as I know, this will be treated like an emergency, like a weather disaster, so you should be, yes. Just keep your phones handy, like I said, and we'll call everyone with what to do next. Let's get out of here, and let the police do their work."
Mark's mind was racing. He doubted that Ross would have left the wireless signal available, as they'd both left for the day, so he decided to go to the library. He wanted to scan the local news, wanted to check on something.
He walked to the library, and found an empty computer. He entered the guest password, and went to the local news station's website, scrolling down the story headlines, soon finding his fear illustrated on the screen.
"Car salesman found murdered in his home," the headline read. He opened the story and read that Charles Richardson, a car salesman, had been discovered by police at his home when the dealership called, concerned that he hadn't been to work, and wasn't answering his phone. Details were withheld, as it was an active investigation, but an anonymous source told reporters that the crime was "ritualistic" in nature.
So. Chuck, and now Tessa, both brutally murdered, just as he'd dreamed. Yet, he was positive he'd never left his apartment, his bed, so how?
Hinnom Magazine Issue 001 Page 4