Urban Occult

by Various

  I almost choked, and it was with great difficulty that I hid my shock. At least I hoped I did. That bottle of wine in my fridge—sacrilege I know—was the Rabelais. I’d attended the winery a month ago as part of a media visit. Or maybe it was just a fluke.

  “That would be lovely, thanks.” I mustered my most confident smile, one I was sure didn’t quite make it to my eyes. I was a bundle of contradictions. The man made me feel all fluttery, yet this business with the wine… A coincidence? We must move in similar circles. And in our last communication he had suggested he was in the media industry.

  If Thane picked up anything from my response, he didn’t show it but turned smartly on his heel and left me to my own devices, ostensibly on his way to the kitchen. My heart was doing double time but I put my bag down on one of the couches, and wandered over to the bookshelf. One could tell a lot from a person’s taste in books, but the majority I noted were titles about philosophy. Then a shit load of Ayn Rand, incongruous for someone who claimed to be a theist, and books on Egypt and ancient Mesopotamia. Lovecraft—an entire hardcover limited-edition selection. A few titles on self-hypnosis and NLP featured, and the rest were all art and design. Thane Westridge appeared to be a big fan of the Bauhaus movement, though one couldn’t tell that by looking at the way he’d decorated his home.

  His living quarters were comfortably bohemian. The walls were painted a burnt umber, and apart from the masks, the art appeared to be vintage prints dating back to the colonial times, which depicted hunting scenes, botanical studies and wild animals.

  “Like what you see?” Thane asked, and I jerked around to face him.

  “Ja, very nice.”

  His smile was warm, though, and he held out a glass to me. A nagging voice in the back of my mind whimpered on about accepting drinks from strangers. I was supposed to be working, damn it, but I could smell the wine’s rich fruity tones even from this distance, and almost taste its tartness.

  “Thanks.” I accepted the glass. In this light, the wine suggested bloody ink.

  He’d removed his jacket and had donned a black, form-hugging cable-knit sweater. I took a seat and watched as he busied himself at the iPod dock. Discreet speakers piped Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. An old favourite of mine. Another flicker of unease caught me. This was all too uncanny. I sipped carefully at the wine. It didn’t taste funny. On the contrary, it was absolutely divine. Nevertheless, I put my glass down on the coaster on the sleeper wood coffee table and eyed Thane warily as he sat on the couch facing me.

  His gaze was inscrutable, and to cover my discomfort, I dug in my bag for my recorder. “You don’t mind if I record our conversation?” I asked.

  Thane inclined his head. “Not at all.” His lips quirked in a smile. “In fact, I’m rather flattered that you followed up after I called your paper.” He took a sip of his wine but his gaze never left me.

  I pressed the record button, pleased to see the small red LED flash on. Thank goodness the batteries were charged. Then I made a production of finding my notes. All the while I was well aware of Thane’s unwavering regard.

  “I make you nervous?” He stroked his goatee.

  I swallowed and glanced up at him. To lie, or err on the side of honesty? “A little.”

  “Why?”

  Ah hell, Mr. Mephistopheles, should I say something about the wine and the music? “Nothing worth mentioning.”

  “Yet you’re clearly outside your comfort zone here. If I disconcert you, why fight against your natural inclinations?”

  “I have a story to write.”

  “And evidently you trust me not to act on unspeakable satanic impulse to sacrifice you to Old Man Splitfoot.”

  I snorted. Yes, the thought had crossed my mind a few times on the way here. What if Westridge was a complete freak of nature? What if he kept small children chained up in a backroom? But then I’d witnessed a fair amount of shit that classified as, “what the fuck?” over the past few years. Hell, I’d gone into townships during periods of unrest. What was one so-called devil worshipper when I’d faced down an angry black mob? I had a can of pepper spray in my bag and had attended a self-defence class a few months ago. “I’ve visited Christians who’re scarier than you, Mr. Westridge. Besides, my editor knows where I’ve gone tonight. If I don’t check in with him later tonight…” Okay, that last part was a lie but I’d be missed by ten tomorrow morning, at the very latest. Granted, by then it might be too late, but Westridge didn’t need to know this.

  Somehow, the man managed to arch a brow independently of the other then sipped his wine. “You should have more wine. No. It’s not drugged.”

  “You seem to be pretty defensive for one who made the first move by contacting the media and inviting a journalist into his home,” I said.

  He gave a small shrug. “Sorry. Years of being ornery. I’m so used to people jumping to the wrong conclusions.”

  “So, why contact the media now?”

  “It’s time.” He spoke the words with an air of inevitability.

  “Time for what?”

  “To let other seekers know we are here.”

  “You speak collectively, Thane. Who are ‘we’?”

  “My brothers and sisters in darkness.”

  “How many of them are there?” Oh joy, he was lapsing into group speak—each pack of nutters had its own lingo. That was a given.

  “More than your Christian churches would like to know exist, but not as many as you’d think. We, who represent the Adversary, will never be numerous, but we are entering a cycle where we wish to welcome new seekers, for they are out there.”

  I gazed ceilingward briefly. “What makes you think I’ll publicise the fact that you’re looking for fresh recruits?”

  “You’re here. It means you’re curious.”

  I couldn’t help but snort softly. “I’m here because my editor requested I write a story about your cult, Mr. Westridge.”

  He pressed a well-manicured hand to his chest. “You wound me, Lucinda. You wrote such a wonderful article about Satanism last year. You, of all people, should know we’re not a cult.”

  Unease coiled in my gut, that small sip of wine sour in my mouth. As much as I’d tried and failed to dig up dirt on Thane Westridge and his Order of the Onyx Dragon, he probably knew far more about me. He followed my articles. Bloody hell, his bunch sounded like Harry Potter gone to the Dark Side of the Force. And I’d gone to great lengths to differentiate between esoteric groups and cults in that article that had damned my career. Not to mention my expose on a certain Christian group that had set up a compound in an isolated Karoo hamlet before committing mass suicide a la Jonestown a year or so back.

  “I must apologise.” I pinched the skin between my left thumb and index finger in an effort to prevent myself from fidgeting. “I take a dim view on religious fundamentalists of any stripe.”

  “Conceded.”

  “Why the Devil?” I needed to keep the interview on track.

  “Why not?”

  “So you believe in God then, if you believe in the Devil?” Most Satanists hated this question.

  “We are not dualists, or Gnostics, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “But surely the one cannot exist without the other?”

  “The universe is a far stranger place than the human mind can conceive. Our order does not believe in placing human limitations on the totality of the objective universe. We seek not to unify ourselves with the collective, but to seek individuality. What better thought than to look toward he who stands outside of space and time? The Prince of Darkness is not the fallen angel Lucifer, although he might be content to pay homage to the imagery at appropriate instances. Lucifer is but an aspect of the greater principle of darkness, the mystery, the unknown, the boundless potential.”

  “And the Christian God?” I’d have to go over his words carefully later. His well-worn phrases made my brain hurt.

  Thane waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “A mere two-thousan
d-year-old fabrication cooked up by Gentile usurpers who couldn’t get it on with a bunch of maverick Jews.”

  “But then why label yourselves as adherents to a religion that venerates a prince of darkness? And you still haven’t told me whether you believe in God.”

  “Because I have intimate knowledge of him, the Prince of Darkness. Over the years he has held many names, but small reflections of a many-faceted dark mirror. God is an illusion we’ve created for our own comfort.”

  Cuckoo. Most assuredly. Thane Westridge had definitely gone off the deep end a good while ago. “Male? Why not female?”

  “It’s an active power, and simpler to say male. You’re splitting hairs. It doesn’t matter at the end of the day. It’s easier to say ‘he’.” His lips were pressed in a thin line and he straightened, the fingers of his left hand clenching and unclenching on his knee. Did he wonder whether he wasted his time with me? Seemingly unflappable devil worshipper wasn’t so unruffled now, was he?

  “I’d have to show, you, Miss Muller. It’s not something I can tell, and expect people to believe.”

  “Show me? How? Smoke and mirrors?”

  I didn’t like his smile. There was something altogether predatory in it.

  “You’re not ready.”

  “So you can’t prove it.” I leaned back into my seat.

  “I can. But it’d harm you.”

  “What gives you the right to say what is good for me and what is not?” He was needling me, and I didn’t like it.

  “You’re too arrogant by half, and you know it.

  “When I have to deal with—” I caught myself before I called him a fucktard. Instead I rose to my feet, snatched up my recorder and switched it off. “With all due respect, Mr. Westridge, if you invited me here tonight just to provoke me, you’re fucking with the wrong person.”

  “Do you wonder why I’m getting a rise out of you?” he asked, so horribly calm I just wanted to smash his face in. Bastard.

  A dozen insults crowded my tongue but I didn’t allow them past my lips. Instead I took a deep breath. “I thought you wanted to have this interview, that you wanted your religion showcased in a positive light.”

  “It’s more than a religion, Lucinda. So much more.” I hated the way he said my name, so smug, so sure of himself, that I’d listen, that I’d stay to be insulted. “Why are you angry?”

  “I don’t have to stay for this.” I packed my things into my bag.

  “Why do you keep writing about people’s beliefs, their faiths? Have you ever stopped to wonder whether this isn’t from some deep-rooted need in yourself to uncover the truth, to get to the bones of it? To find what you’ve been looking for all these years but have been denying yourself? And now, when someone offers it to you, you’re running scared?”

  I rounded on him, hands on hips. “What makes you so goddamned sure you have the right of it? Out of all the thousands of faiths out there, how do you know you’re onto the truth?”

  “You’re still hurt by the fact that your mother forced you to get Confirmed, aren’t you? The Christian faith was never enough for you, yet you were denied the chance to pursue other avenues. So you seek to destroy and debunk what you consider to be the illusions poor misguided idiots like me cling to.” Thane put down his glass and watched me over steepled fingers. This whole interview was just a game to him, an occultnik dick-measuring contest.

  His words bit hard then. “What do you know about my past? What, are you some sicko stalker?” I hadn’t been to church for more than fifteen years, and my mother would never have discussed me with someone who did what she considered to be the Devil’s handiwork. She was quite vocal in her dislike of the articles I was prone to writing.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “How do you…” We stared at each other long enough for me to hear a clock chime in one of the other rooms.

  “You wouldn’t believe me.” He sounded weary. “No one ever does. It’s the burden we carry, which is why we would not ordinarily discuss these things with those who prefer to remain asleep.” Thane rose and walked to the door, which he unlocked and held open for me. “It’s getting late. This has been a waste of time.”

  Something like regret crept over me, and blunted the edge of my anger. A small voice nagged, suggesting that if I walked away from this interview, I’d be missing out on the first and possibly last opportunity to uncover a story that wasn’t all make-believe.

  Was Thane really the clever charlatan logic suggested? He’s dangerous, another part of me cried. Get away while you still can!

  “And if I said that I’d give you the benefit of the doubt?” I asked. This was stupid. I should get out as soon as possible.

  Thane shook his head, his shoulders slumped. “No. It’s best you leave. This entire escapade was ill-advised. I’d appreciate it if you kindly refrain from doing that write-up.”

  “But…”

  He tightened his lips and breathed loudly through his nose. “Please.”

  Whatever cocky demeanour had annoyed the living shit out of me earlier was gone, replaced by the quiet resignation of one I supposed was exhausted by untold derision. I tried to picture what it must be like to be in possession of the passion… and the strangeness. This man knew things, about me, possibly others, knowledge gained by unknown means.

  Go, go, the voice of reason goaded, and I obeyed.

  But I paused at the open door to gaze one last time upon his face. Thane Westridge held some sort of twisted, inverted Christ-like beauty that promised untold pleasures and mysteries. Those dark eyes and the secrets they perceived. I paused, my hand on the doorframe, my feet unwilling to take that fatal step back into the night.

  His lips parted and the tip of his tongue darted out, almost like a lizard’s, to probe at a corner before vanishing. He smelled of musk and sandalwood, and something indefinably feral.

  I stood there as he leaned toward me. Cool fingers caressed the side of my face and Thane placed his Judas kiss on my forehead.

  I stand in a forest clearing. The pine trees are tall, their boughs tangled; a good number of trunks lean at drunken angles. The world is painted in tints of charcoal and Prussian blue, the sky cobalt and scattered with a fine mist of stars. My breath plumes before my face and when I raise my hand before my face, an after-image stutters in the wake of my movement. Freeze frame reality.

  Fresh resin paints the air and I inhale deeply and exhale, watching the fine mist as it dissipates. Water trickles diagonally to my left, but I can’t see the source, so I approach. There’s no path, so I have to step with care over logs. My bare feet sink into a thick blanket of pine needles, through to the dark loam beneath. The muddy earth squelches between my toes—a not wholly unpleasant sensation.

  I have to wade through thigh-deep tangles of fern before I reach the stream. Pale granite gleams, shaping the passage of a series of obsidian pools. I’m not scared, though I have no recollection as to how I find myself in this forest, at night no less. A nightjar calls in the distance but here, by the watercourse, small frogs pop and click, unconcerned by my arrival.

  That’s when movement catches my eye, a figure clothed in shadow approaching from across the stream. I halt: waiting, watching.

  The man is tall; his face difficult to discern. Then I realise that his features are morphing, constantly shifting. He is at once cruel and beautiful, noble and savage. Black hair falls to his waist then shivers to silver before taking on blue-black hues.

  He is at once clothed in form-hugging leather then ring armour or a dark, knee-length tunic and britches. But his eyes entrap me, fathomless and encapsulating the essence of the cold, glittering stars.

  “Who are you?” I whisper, as a terrible knowing slices through my very being. I want to scream, cry—but I cannot move.

  “I am your shadow. I am because you are.”

  “Thank you.” I reached over and switched off the recorder.

  Thane sat across from me, a half-empty wine glass cupped car
elessly in one hand. “A pleasure. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  I frowned. Some small memory hitched and I glanced at my cellphone’s clock. Half-past nine. The interview had started at quarter to eight. Why was it that I had so little memory of how things had gone? No mind. I had it all on record. I had vague recollections of our conversation but then reality gave a small lurch and I remembered cold… A forest. Moisture beaded on my upper lip and I sank back in my seat.

  “Are you all right?” Thane had risen to his feet and loomed above me.

  “Just… Dizzy.” I glanced at my wine. It remained untouched on the sleeper wood coffee table.

  “Should I fetch you a glass of water?”

  “No. It’s fine. Just give me a few seconds. I should have eaten supper before I came here.”

  “You’ve gone awfully pale.”

  A forest, painted in blue and charcoal tones…

  I swallowed, packed my recorder, phone and notes in my bag. My keys felt heavy and cold in my grasp. “I’m good.”

  Thane looked as though he were ready to catch me in case I collapsed while I walked on unsteady feet to the door.

  “It’s late,” I told him. “I’ve already taken up enough of your time.”

  “It’s nothing. I enjoyed our dialogue.” His smile seemed genuine, warm. I was sorry to go.

  We made small talk as he walked me to the car. He was solicitous. I asked how he could park his Merc out in the street. Gardens was notorious for theft out of motor vehicles. He just smiled and pointed at the pendant dangling from the rear-view mirror. The thing looked like the mummified claw of a bird.

  At this point, tired and dizzy as I was, I nodded in understanding.

  He stood watching as I drove away.

  I woke late on Thursday morning. Sometime during the night, the clouds had covered the sky and now an unrelenting deluge pissed down and battered the tin roof of my cottage. Try as I might, I had very little recollection of the drive home, only that I was safe in bed, somehow in my PJs. My body felt heavy, as though I could do with more sleep. Then I noticed the time. It was half-past nine. I was supposed to have been at the office half an hour ago.