How to Disappear Completely

by Melody Ann Ross

  She paused and considered a moment.

  “Yes, I suppose so, but-”

  “No, no buts. I solved a problem and made everyone feel good about it,” he said shortly.

  “And charged them money, and manipulated their feelings!” Anthea was starting to raise her voice, and took a mental step back to calm down.

  “How is that any different from a conventional IT technician?” His words invited argument, but his charismatic smile was making that difficult. Anthea crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him.

  “Well, it’s lying, for a start.” She was either starting to lose interest in the argument or he was beginning to convince her.

  “No,” Cyrus countered, "People need to believe they are in control. Some people exercise their control by solving their own problems. Some people do it by paying others to solve their problems. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “I think so, but I still don’t like it.”

  “I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to hold this incense and walk around this circle of protection six times.” He was holding out a bronze bowl toward her.

  It was emanating a thin, blueish smoke, although Anthea hadn’t recalled seeing him light it.

  “Right, about that,” she said, "Demons aren’t real. It’s just you and me here, so why are you doing this?” She reached for the bowl and started her procession. She was prepared to concede that the iPhone trick wasn’t so bad, but she was not going to be thrown off of the larger point.

  “They are real,” he said matter-of-factly, “But they’re probably not what you think.”

  “How do you know what I think?” She hated when she said things like that, and hated her immediate fear response even more than the petulance in her voice.

  “Well, most people envision demons as otherworldly, scary creatures. They’re not at all. Well, most of them aren’t.”

  Anthea waited for him to say more on the topic as she circled him, but that was apparently all he wanted to give her. Either that or he was forcing her to ask. She’d had conversations with people like this before, people who really, desperately want to tell you something but need the satisfaction of being questioned. People who drop enticing hints about their private lives, knowing that you couldn’t possibly be content without the full story. People who are prepared to give you the full story, but only when they’re sure that they've captured a hungry audience. Anthea always assumed it was some sort of insecurity thing.

  She sighed inwardly and asked, “Then what are they?”

  “Demons are more like… wisps. Patterns of thought. Uncontrollable emotions. Let things like that go on long enough and they take form in the void.”

  “‘And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep,’” she recited in a punctuated rhythm in time with her steps.

  “Very good, KJV, my favorite.”

  “What?” she asked, confused.

  “King James Version. It’s my favorite translation,” Cyrus said slowly.

  “Translation? What does that mean?” but as soon as she'd asked, Anthea realized that she had given something about herself away. She quietly filed that thought away for later inspection reluctantly. She had avoided learning anything to do with religion in her years of freedom. It seemed she could no longer continue this way.

  “Nevermind. Let’s just do this. Do you remember the chant?”

  "Nihil est magni momenti. What does it mean?” Again Anthea regretted asking the question, but just couldn’t help herself. She knew that it must be Latin, she just didn’t really know any Latin. What that told Cyrus about her, she wasn’t sure.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said in a maddeningly superior voice, as he beckoned her to join him inside the circle.

  She hesitated before entering and said quietly, “‘And the serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.'”

  “What?” It was Cyrus’ turn to look confused.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said with a small smile.

  “Oh my child, how beautiful you have become. How your mind has blossomed and sprouted. How it sparkles and glitters with joy.”

  Anthea and Cyrus were seated on the floor in the center of the pentagram, their joined hands forming a small circle around the bowl of incense. They’d chanted and circled and offered various elements to the five cardinal directions, which, Anthea had been informed, also included ‘void.’ A small blue flame danced and swayed in the bowl, and from it had emanated a kind, ethereal voice. Anthea had jerked away from Cyrus when the sound began, but he held her hands fast. She looked up at him in confusion, alarm, and suspicion.

  “You… I know this voice. This is my voice.” Cyrus’ face had taken on an otherworldly quality in the flickering blue light, but he was looking between Anthea and the flame with kindness and reverence.

  “Yes, Anthea, this is Curiosity. I thought she might be your demon,” he said softly, happily.

  “My demon?”

  Anthea tried to jerk away again when the flame responded.

  “Yes, child. I have reached for you from the void for so long. You had such a terrible need. I tried to protect you from your drought. I have succeeded. Now you are free and so, so beautiful."

  Anthea still had no idea what was happening. She accepted that there was a stunning blue flame sitting in the bowl before her, but did not accept that it was speaking. This had to be something Cyrus was doing, or else the incense was causing her to hallucinate. She could hardly think of anything to say. She needed an explanation of this trick.

  “But… Demons are evil. Curiosity can’t be a demon,” said Anthea finally.

  “Why not?” the flame answered, "There were those in your life who believed it to be so. Men are always discouraging their children from questioning the path. This is not the first time that I have been called ‘demon.’”

  “Patterns of thought take form in the void, Anthea,” said Cyrus gently, “Curiosity is one of those entities.”

  She watched the flame for a moment and considered. She still wasn’t prepared to believe him, and a little light show and voice-acting wasn’t enough to convince her. Questions flooded her mind and she changed her tactic.

  “Why? I mean, why have you summoned her? Why did you summon a demon for me?” she asked.

  “I thought you might have questions. I thought you might want to meet your proverbial guardian angel.” Cyrus sounded genuine, even a little hesitant, as though he was truly worried that he had made a mistake.

  “What do you mean?” Anthea had heard of guardian angels, but it was not something she was inclined to believe. She’d spent the first 16 years her life in perfect piety. Look how that was paying off now.

  “Well, you heard her. Some people’s demons sort of, look after them, so to speak.”

  Cyrus watched her face as understanding dawned on Anthea and tears began to prick the corners of her eyes.

  “You… you sent me the books? You helped me in the Holy House?"

  The flame twirled and danced at her recognition. Its small voice sang out, “I sent you nourishment in your drought. You were so strong during your tribulation, but I came anyway."

  “‘For I was sick, and ye visited me. I was in prison, and ye came unto me,’” said Anthea, emotion choking her voice.

  “Yes, child. And now your energetic mind, your joy, your life strengthens me. There are others who need me. Your power helps me reach them. You are delicious. You are delightful! You are my great work! My triumph! Mine!” Curiosity’s voice began to grow feverish and insistent.

  A small alarm in the back of Anthea’s mind began to ring as she struggled to regain control of her emotions and process Curiosity’s words.

  “Stay calm, Anthea,” said Cyrus seriously, “You are safe. Nothing is taken without permission.”

  He closed his eyes and began to chant quickly under his breath. Anthea watched as the flame began to gutter and spurt.

  “Thank you,”
she said quietly, as the flame dissolved into a whisper of blue smoke once more.

  Chapter 7

  Szyrus the Seer

  The most important moment of Cyrus Schock’s life occurred just before midnight of May 1st, 1887, at a dark Victorian mansion about a day’s journey west of London. A young Scottish folklorist had requested that Cyrus join a large party of London socialites for an evening of dabbling in spiritualism and communication with the departed. At that time he was still known by something approximating his true name, Szyrus Czoch, and professionally as Szyrus the Seer.

  He had a reasonably successful career as a tinkerer and horologist and had begun to draw up plans for a large steam-powered clock, but to supplement this income, he had taken to hosting seances in the large attic above his shop. His knowledge of clockwork devices served him well in this capacity and he had built up a small but steadfastly dedicated clientele of the bored housewives of London and their husbands or lovers.

  Cyrus had learned that there were three types of people who attended his seances: the determined believers, the genuinely curious, and the irascible cynics. For the determined believers, immovably resolved to have a spiritual experience, every creaking board and drop of rain was a spirit trying to cross over to speak to them. They spent their entire seance in wide-eyed raptures, their dainty gloved hands clutching silken handkerchiefs at their throats. Cyrus found them desperately compliant and almost sweetly suggestible.

  “Yes, I have had an encounter with death! Heavens, it was an ailment of the heart! Oh me, a male whose name began with D! It simply must be dear old uncle Dicky who succumbed to dropsy in the Orient! I’m here, Uncle Dicky! I’m ready to receive your message!”

  Cyrus was somewhat irritated by these clients but had a soft spot for their sweet naïveté and sometimes found himself applying a balm to true, raw grief. He assured them that their dear Uncle Dicky was in a better place, a place filled with warmth and light, that they were not to worry about the money, that he was always watching over them, and that he would take care of… oh this part of the message isn’t coming through clearly, is there a child who has passed over before? It’s a very soft, almost feminine presence, perhaps a young mother? I’m terribly sorry my dear, the veil is thickening, I just can’t reach this spirit. Shall we try again next week?

  The genuinely curious simply looked on and drew their own conclusions, while the cynics either scoffed to the bitter end or slowly cemented to their chairs through the event, pupils narrowing and hearts palpitating.

  Cyrus knew that he was playing the odds with his interpretations of spiritual communication, the manifestations of which were helped along by a few cleverly concealed time-devices spread throughout the room. He had learned this practice from attending a few seances on his own and closely observing the magi who conducted the ceremonies. It never seemed to matter if the clairvoyant was a man or woman, they made the same observations to every group.

  Cyrus contented himself with the thought that he was not only emulating these great masters, but improving on their methods by providing comfort to those left to descend alone into their grief.

  Before he began this little venture, he’d had very little idea just how many mothers, sisters, and wives had been left to mourn the dead idiots who’d gone off glory-seeking to the Sudan, The Cape Colony, Ceylon, or the Indian subcontinent. He was content to be their confessor, their understanding friend, their patient soothsayer, and he offered closure with his ‘readings’ whenever it was possible.

  He had expected the evening in Wales to be similar, although hopefully populated by clients with fatter purses, and had spent the weeks leading up to it scanning the London pages for the obituaries involving the major social figures. Later, he remembered thinking vaguely that the event would fall on Beltane and wondered if that could be useful to his performance, but he ultimately dismissed the idea.

  He’d arrived a couple of days early and taken rooms at a local inn, where he’d immediately ingratiated himself to Hywel, the owner, by fixing up his clock. This had a number of advantages, chief among them that Hywel was a well-informed if recalcitrant hub of knowledge on local legends, both living and historical.

  Another advantage of Hywel’s friendship was that Cyrus was able to make a number of sojourns out to the historic home in advance of his duties there, thanks to Hywel’s brother Owen, who was the gamekeeper of the extensive parklands surrounding the home. He used these visits to get a mental map of the house and to plan his theatrics. He’d learned which rooms had the highest ceilings, which ones had hidden doors to the cold cellars, and where the drafts moved the curtains the strongest.

  As much as Hywel was reserved, his brother Owen was loquacious, and Cyrus liked both of them immensely. He was helping Owen cut hawthorne branches as they toured the grounds together one misty morning when Cyrus spotted two large piles of kindling in the distance, stacked up in cones as though for a bonfire. He asked the Welshman what they were for.

  “Well, it’s Calan Haf now in a minute, isn’t it?” Owen responded.

  “Calan Haf? I’m sorry, my Welsh is simply atrocious,” responded Cyrus, apologetically.

  “Pity,” said Owen gruffly, “Welsh language is what God whispers when he rocks his angels to sleep. I suppose you heathen saeson call it May Day only.”

  “Oh May Day, of course,” replied Cyrus, “I’ve also heard it referred to as Beltane, or arminden. What does Calan Haf mean?”

  “It means ‘first day of summer’, and we’ll light the fires tomorrow to keep the spirits on their own side, and to show the winter where he gets off,” said Owen with a nod.

  Cyrus felt a more than a little twinge of interest at all this new information.

  “Spirits? What kind of spirits?” he asked.

  “What do you do in your Beltane, then?” snorted Owen indignantly, “Dance around a pole and eat sweeties? No, tomorrow night is when the winter returns to his realm, but he has to go through a door, he does. And he’s a great big beast, he is. So the door has to stay open for a long time, you see?”

  “I think so,” Cyrus encouraged.

  “Well you’d best be careful when the door is open is all. All manner of other things may gain admittance in the between time.”

  “What’s the between time? Can I speak to the spirits? How do you protect yourself in the between?” the questions came spilling out of Cyrus.

  “Alright there,” chuckled the old man, “I can see you’ve an interest, and maybe even a knack. Why don’t you come round tomorrow night and just see for yourself?”

  “Ah, I’m afraid that tomorrow evening I am otherwise engaged,” Cyrus slid Owen a sideways look and wry grin.

  After a moment, the older man raised his eyebrows and exclaimed, “Och, don’t tell me you’re working at the big house for those posh ninnies?”

  Cyrus let out a hearty laugh and replied remorsefully, “I’m afraid so.”

  “In that case you’ll need more than protection against the othersiders, but I’ll educate you as far as I can.” Owen had been smiling along with Cyrus, but his tone turned serious once again.

  Cyrus listened for the duration of the morning as the man explained the traditions and history of Calan Haf, the weaving of a straw man, the dances, the songs, the foods, the sacrifices, and how to protect oneself from the dangers of wandering spirits. The sun had burned off the morning mist and both men’s arms were full of hawthorne branches by the time he had finished his lecture. Cyrus soaked up every morsel of information but still had one burning question.

  “So, what if one does want to encounter the spirits?” He felt more than a little foolish for asking, and half expected Owen to laugh at him.

  “Good night for it, but still dangerous. I’ve told you the protections, and that’s where you ought to leave it, you should. According to my old nan, anyone can summon a demon easily enough if they’re not careful. She said, ‘if thy heart has a keening, yon demon is leaning’. I think in her mind, all you really
have to do is express the desire and be in the right place at the right time,” Owen’s speech had begun to trail off as he ruminated over half-remembered knowledge.

  “So, it is possible to encounter a spirit simply by expressing a desire to do so and by relying on a kind of reverse providence?” Cyrus summarized.

  “I suppose that’s so,” Owen replied, and the two continued their walk.

  As the night gathered around the ornate mansion, the patrons of the evening’s proceedings began to arrive. The gilded parlors and rich brocade chambers were each outfitted with occult activities and decor; a tarot adept from Italy, a tea-leaf reader from the Siam, a Turk to read coffee cups, and a few others like Cyrus to channel the spirits of the departed. Then there were the staff; footmen to take coats and maids to supply the partygoers with food and drink, cinder girls to keep the fires lit and haul the water for the resting rooms, thick-armed kitchen matrons overseeing it all.

  The entire sprawling complex had been transformed into a dark sea of amusements, but the coup de grace was to be the midnight seance conducted by the Lady Lamia, a locally famous medium.

  Cyrus had heard of Lady Lamia, but had never met her. She was famous for connecting with the spirits of children who had been victims of violence or malice, and Cyrus wasn’t entirely sure he approved of this. However, he was eager to converse with her, if only to be able to advertise to his clients that he had studied under the great medium.

  Relegated to a dark corner in an upstairs room and with a constant stream of potential adepts, he began to worry that his chances of speaking to the woman were waning. Near midnight, he announced that he needed to take some time to recharge his spiritual essence lest he succumb to the veil and stood up from his round table.

  The assembled party had all begun to convene in the grand ball room where Lady Lamia had begun setting up her ritual. Cyrus was surprised to see that she was a young woman with long unbound locks of midnight waves, not the grey crone he had expected. And she was dressed in sumptuous mourning black. He watched with the rest of the party as she placed five thick black candles around a circle of salt, lit them, and begin chanting. He nodded in approval and took mental record of the phrases she uttered. The room was becoming uncomfortably warm as the masses stilled in anticipation. Cyrus took it all in with professional appreciation as the gas lamps were extinguished. The world was reduced to the circle of gentle candle light illuminating Lady Lamia.