by Matt Drabble
He headed quickly out of his room and down to meet the usual disapproval. The house was large and luxurious; the reward for a career spent at the expense of family ties. Jerry’s mother had died whilst giving birth to him, a sign that Jerry took as his first sacrifice and the start of his father’s icy distance.
“You had a delivery earlier,” his father stated coldly.
He was a tall ramrod of a man, late forties with salt and pepper hair and a buttoned up demeanor. Jerry could never remember seeing his father out of a three piece suit; a grey ensemble to match his personality. He was lean and tight in mind as of body, tall and rigid with a precision trimmed white moustache and every hair in its place.
“What was it?” Jerry asked.
“Do I look like your secretary?” His father withered, flapping a hand towards a large brown package on the kitchen table. “Open your own damn mail.”
Jerry smiled politely as his father departed for the club. His father seemed eager to spend as little time in his company as possible, and that suited Jerry just fine. He snatched up the package and charged back up the stairs to the safe anonymity of his bedroom.
His hands sweated and trembled as he tore the brown paper from the box in a furious flurry. This was his last hope, his last stab at realizing his dreams and fulfilling his dark destiny. His long and arduous research had finally been rewarded when he had managed to track down a copy of The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. It was an 18th century magical text allegedly written by Moses, and passed down as hidden books of the Five Books of Moses or Pentateuch. It was reputed to be a Grimoire, a text of magical incantations and seals, purporting to instruct the reader in the spells used to create the miracles portrayed in the Judaeo-Christian Bible. The work was printed with annexes or reputed Talmudic magic names, words and incantation. Many were taken from Christian biblical passages. It was said to show diagrams of seals, which were magical drawings accompanied by incantations intended to perform various tasks, from controlling weather or people to contacting the dead or Christian religious figures. Copies had been traced to 18th century German pamphlets, but an 1849 printing - aided by the appearance of the popular press in the 19th century - had spread the text through Germany and Northern Europe.
Jerry had facilitated his father’s American Express gold card to purchase the copy. He knew that when the bill arrived his father would explode and he had faced a race between the book and the bill’s arrival; fortunately the book had won the race.
He lifted the ancient book out of the careful wrappings and his fingers throbbed with the power within. The cover felt like coarse leather and he could only hope that it was indeed flayed flesh as the legend perpetuated. He eased the book open with gentle care as though handling a new born babe. The pages were scrawled with a deep dark red text; words flowed in chicken scratches like a demonic doctor’s notes. For the next ten hours, Jerry fell into the pages and the power within.
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Billy waited patiently, Charlie less so. They were standing outside the darkened studio doors. Jerry had summoned them to appear at midnight, having professed to have obtained the correct permissions.
Billy stamped his feet against the cold. “Damn it Charlie, where is he?”
“Beats me, you know Jerry, always the man of mystery,” Charlie waved his hands in exaggeration.
“Pack it in, it’s creepy enough without you dicking about.”
“What’s the matter William, not getting scared are you?”
“No, just cold and getting pissed off,” Billy snapped, “I tell you something, I’m getting sick and tired of Jerry and his games.”
“Yeah, you’ll tell me but not him I’ll wager,” Charlie smirked.
“Like you would,” Billy challenged to Charlie’s sudden downward stare.
“Alright guys,” Pete’s small voice suddenly piped up behind them.
“JESUS!” Billy jumped, “Why are you always creeping around Pete?”
“Didn’t mean to,” Pete sniffed quietly.
“How the hell did you get out of the house anyway?” Charlie asked, “I thought your old man kept you on a short leash?”
“He’s away for the night, so what he doesn’t know can’t hurt me,” Pete smiled.
“What is it with your old man anyway?” Billy asked.
“Oh he’s alright, just a little overprotective I guess.”
“Doesn’t want you hanging around with delinquents like us eh?” Billy teased gently.
As quiet and shy as Pete was, both Billy and Charlie genuinely liked the younger boy, and even Jerry had to admit that Pete had a set of lungs on him.
“You girls going to stand out there all night?” Jerry’s voice from the studio window above suddenly startled them all.
“What is it with everyone trying to give me a heart attack tonight?” Billy grumbled under his breath and out of Jerry’s earshot. Pete and Charlie giggled as the door behind them swung open as if by magic and they all trooped in.
“What are we doing here at this time of night?” Pete whispered as the three of them walked through the small deserted reception area.
“No idea,” Charlie answered, “Jerry called me up and told me to get all of our collective butts down here at ten to midnight and not to be late.,”
“I’m guessing that it’s got something to do with his latest plans for world domination,” Billy laughed.
“How right you are William,” Jerry said, suddenly appearing in the dark studio doorway.
The three of them stared in disbelief at their leader. He was wearing long red hooded robes that swished and swayed around him. Charlie and Billy cast a furtive glance at each other whilst Pete stood open mouthed.
“Come in, come in,” Jerry motioned.
The primal instincts ran deep in the three underlings, and even though their legs protested, they followed orders.
The studio was empty of all recording equipment; the floor space was now filled with a strange chalk drawing. There was a large circle with a five pointed star in the middle and five symbols at the apex of each point. There were several black candles alight and laying around the room that was lit by their dancing flames. The thick aroma of incense hung heavily on the air and mingled with the trails of candle smoke.
“Uh, what the hell is this Jerry?” Billy challenged, summoning up enough courage to do so.
“What does it look like William?” Jerry smiled none too pleasantly.
“It looks like devil worshiping to me,” Charlie laughed. He quickly stopped when he realised that he was the only one doing so.
“That’s just about right Charles,” Jerry smiled, “Why don’t you all take a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”
“I don’t know about this Jerry,” Pete squeaked.
“Just sit down Peter,” Jerry ordered dismissively.
Pete looked towards Charlie and Billy for help, but Billy was already rushing forward, eager for some laughs and Charlie could only shrug.
“Don’t worry Pete,” Charlie whispered, “I hardly think that anything is going to happen, Jerry’s all talk and no trousers.”
“My dad would kill me if he caught me involved in anything like this,” Pete said.
“Not if I do first,” Jerry said with menace, “Now sit down,” he demanded in a tone that refused further discussion.
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Jerry viewed over his dominion. His three servants sat with reluctant obedience in their eyes. Billy was eager for entertainment, Charlie looked curious and Pete positively trembled with apprehension. The book had shown him the way; no more fantasies, no more games. It was time to put away childish things. He began to recite the prayer.
“Lord Satan, by your grace grant me. I pray thee the power to conceive in my mind and to execute that, which I desire to do, the end which I would attain by thy help. O mighty Satan, the one true God who livest and reignest forever and ever. I entreat thee to manifest before me, that you give me true and faithful answer. So that I
may accomplish my desired end, provided that it is proper to your office. This I respectfully and humbly ask in your name. Lord Satan may you deem me worthy father.”
Charlie looked at Billy who was grinning, wildly enjoying the show. He looked over to Pete who was shaking, terrified. “It’s OK Pete,” he tried to reassure the younger boy, “I don’t think that demons are about to spring forth and eat us all,” he offered a smile, meant to reassure.
“This all looks pretty real to me,” Pete said through a small strained voice.
Billy looked over as Jerry continued his chanting prayer in a rising tide, “You believe this shit?” Billy giggled, but his good humor suddenly dried up as the candlelight faded and dimmed.
Jerry intensified his call to his dark father.
“Uh, Jerry,” Charlie said nervously as the room seemed to close in around them.
“Show yourself to me Lord, grant me my desires and I shall be forever more at your command to do your bidding on this earthly plane,” Jerry raged.
“I don’t like this,” Pete whined.
“Yeah, shut it down Jerry please,” Billy begged.
The winds howled inexplicably within the confines of the small studio. The air was oppressive and stank of sickly sulphur. Billy, Charlie, and Pete huddled together in the growing darkness, clutching each other for comfort against the hungry terror that licked greedily at their toes.
“Reveal yourself to me!” Jerry screamed into the raging indoor storm. ”Reveal your face to me. I demand to see your face,” he screamed against the howling gale.
“Jerry please!” Pete begged into the wind, “Don’t do this!”
“Listen to him Jerry!” Billy shouted as the screams and wails of the damned filled the studio, “You’ve got to stop this before it’s too late!”
The hurricane reached a crescendo. The screams and wails reached fever pitch; the wind pounded harder, threatening to tear apart the very fabric of existence. And then it all went black. The whole room was suddenly silent. All noise ceased and the light had been completely extinguished as though the very substance had simply ceased to be.
Slowly Billy heard the soft exhausted panting of the drained Jerry; he reached in the dark and couldn’t find Charlie or Pete. “Guys?” he whispered, afraid of the dark.
“Billy?” Charlie’s voice whispered back, “Where are you?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see a thing,” Billy answered.
“It should have worked,” Jerry’s tired voice crept out of the blackness, “I did everything right. I followed every instruction to the letter. His face should have been revealed to me. He should have been compelled to appear in his natural form before me.”
“Who should have? The Devil?” Charlie said incredulously.
“Of course, you mindless slug,” Jerry snapped.
“Wait a minute, you were hoping to summon Satan himself?” Billy asked shocked. “And just what the hell did you think he was going to do if he showed up?”
“Well, now we’ll never know, will we?” Jerry’s tired voice said through the darkness.
“Shit, where’s Pete?” Charlie suddenly said.
“I don’t know, I can’t see a damn thing in here,” Billy answered, sharing his concern.
“It should have worked,” Jerry mumbled again.
“I told you not to,” Pete’s voice was suddenly deeper and rougher than the others remembered. “You were playing with fire Jerry, messing with forces that you can’t possibly comprehend.”
“Pete, what’s going on?” Charlie asked, suddenly scared. He could hear Pete’s voice but could also now hear a slithering in the darkness.
“What are you babbling about Petey?” Jerry snapped in his usual aggressive and dismissive tone. “Why don’t you just run home to daddy like a good little boy, you’re of no use to me, none of you are. I did everything right and it still didn’t work,” he said mumbling the last bit to himself.
“Who said that it didn’t?” Pete said as his voice grew deeper and louder until it was a roaring that filled the room and their ears, threatening to drive them all insane.
The black room suddenly began to glow and brighten as the thick night was forced back. Charlie and Billy staggered back against the far wall; Jerry could only stare as Pete’s form was gradually revealed in its full splendor.
Pete was no more. In his place stood a monstrous creation forged in the fires of hell. The demon stood over seven feet tall, its skin was a hardened ridged shell like a tortoise but a deep mottled grey. Vicious spikes protruded from its scaly arms all the way up to its broad and powerful shoulders, and two horns stood proudly on top of its head. Its face was covered with withered tight skin that looked like ancient parchment paper, and its eyes were sunken and strangely mournful.
“I told you not to,” the Pete demon said sadly.
“Are you…, are you the Devil?” Jerry spluttered.
“No, but there is a certain family resemblance, I told you that my father wouldn’t approve,” the Pete demon suddenly stared up at the ceiling with his eyes closed as though seemingly listening to a silent voice. “He wants me to relay his displeasure,” the Pete demon said unhappily.
In a flash of fangs and claws Charlie and Billy were splattered all over the room. A bloody explosion of red gore was smeared across the walls.
Jerry could only stare in horror as his shirt became sprayed from across the room and red flecks dotted his pale cheeks. He watched in disbelief as the demon shrunk before his eyes and became slender Pete again.
“I really wanted to be in the band you know,” Pete said sighing, “but Dad never would have understood all that blasphemous ideology. You know he never did understand the connection between himself and that sort of music. He hates metal, loves Sinatra if you can believe that,” Pete said with a small smile.
19.
BLACKWATER HEIGHTS
Martin stood outside the room again, “So if Jerry’s in there, what happened to Pete?”
“The police never found any trace of him It was like he never existed at all,” Jimmy answered.
“And let me guess, all of the metal music, tattoos and make-up made it very easy to believe that poor old Jerry in there just went nuts and killed his two friends?”
“Now you’re getting it,” Jimmy grinned a smile that was several teeth short of a full one. “Every tale in here is fuel for the fire,” he whispered, almost to himself.
“What does that mean?” Martin asked, once again spooked by his elderly guide.
“Oh nothing, nothing at all, my dear boy,” Jimmy said with a reassuring smile that didn’t quite seem to touch his eyes. Jimmy looked down at his watch, “Time’s wasting, those clock hands do keep on creeping don’t they. We’d better hurry if you want to finish before morning.”
Martin watched the elderly janitor; he weighed up his options of keeping moving forward or just leaving. These tales had left him intrigued, frightened, shaken, and eager. He knew that he had the basis of a decent book within his scribbled notes, if only he could find the stomach to write it. There was obviously something not quite right about Jimmy and the original idea of a collaboration on the book now seemed like not such a good idea. He struggled to picture Jimmy cackling alongside him on the promotional tour. The old man was a loose cannon, one that wouldn’t do well in the cold light of day. Jimmy’s constant assertions that all of the tales were true wouldn’t be quite so endearing on a morning chat show, sandwiched between autumn fashions and low calorie recipes. He made the snap decision to treat Jimmy like a mushroom - feed him shit and keep him in the dark.
“Lead on Macduff,” Martin said with forced cheerfulness.
“As you wish,” Jimmy smiled.
20.
PRIMETIME SPECIAL
Morton Banks was fifty five years old, six feet two and of a heavy soft build. His face was pudgy and redder than it should have been; broken veins crisscrossed his bulbous nose swollen by too much strong alcohol. His hair was high and ful
l, peppered with silver and blown into bouffant waves with a thick moustache to match.
The building was large and imposing; a gothic nightmare in anyone’s dictionary. The dark night swirled around the rusty iron gates and the fog drifted picturesquely around his feet, before climbing his legs and circling his waist.
“Dammit Terry,” Morton snapped impatiently. “That’s too much smoke. Tone it down a little or do I have to do everything myself?”
Terry Jarvis mumbled grumpily under his breath as he adjusted the small commercial machine that was pumping out the atmospheric fog.
“Better,” Morton said, which was as close to praise as he could get.
“Are we good to go Morty?” The voice from the outside broadcasting unit parked around the corner whispered in his ear.
“I’ll bloody well tell you when I’m ready to go,” Morton barked, “and Sheila, just because I banged you a couple of times doesn’t mean shit when we’re out in the field, so knock off the Morty crap.”
Morton smiled cruelly, imagining Sheila’s beetroot red face as he embarrassed her over the open line.
The “OB” Unit occupants were no doubt squirming in their sweat stained clothing and stinking of body odour mingled with stale coffee. When it came to home comforts on the road, Morton was the only one that didn’t go without. His trailer was luxurious and plush and strictly off limits to anyone else. “Terror Trails” was his show after all. The television program was a journey around some of the country’s most infamous murder sights. It was relatively low budget with Morton presenting and one cameraman to accompany him. They shot exclusively at night and promised the viewers an up close ghost hunt.
Morton regarded his viewers as morons with little imagination or comprehension. This gig was only ever supposed to be a pit-stop on his journey to bigger and better things, but he had been consistently held back by jealously and bitterness, at least in his own deluded mind. The reality was that Morton was born an asshole and only grew bigger. He went through cameramen and producers at a rate of knots and the program had suffered as a result. His timeslot had faded away until only those with the most nocturnal natures were still watching. Morton took all of this with only an outward sense of blame; his blind spot was all encompassing when it came to his own deficiencies.