Henry Halfmoon

by Huck Warwicks

  The coffee, coupled with Fritz’s genial reassurances, is enough to calm my nerves. We sit for a few minutes in silence, which is a lot harder for him than it is for me. Finally, he can’t take it and breaks.

  “What’s that?” Fritz asks, nodding his head towards the package under my arm.

  “Oh, it’s… uh nothing. Just some old books.”

  “Sweet. Looks like a gift. Who’s birthday?”

  “Mine, I guess.”

  “Dude! Happy Birthday!” he blurts out way too enthusiastically, causing me to cringe. I could do without any public attention right now.

  “No…” I chuckle at his over-the-top eagerness. “It’s not my birthday. I’m just borrowing these from… a friend.”

  Fritz is crushed. I can see in his eyes that another friend is a devastating blow to his dream. Relegated to second place, the defeated, yet committed Fritz says, “That’s cool, bruh. What books did you borrow?”

  It’s too painful to watch. I won’t allow him to be demoralized just to keep an irrelevant secret.

  “Actually, it was Professor Shipley that let me borrow them.”

  The lights in Fritz’s eyes flicker back on, the friendship of a grumpy old professor not being any serious threat to his newfound best friend status.

  “And honestly, Fritz, I don’t know which books these are.”

  “So… open it, dude. Birthday, remember?” He laughs.

  “Not here. Let’s go back to my place. I need to shower and change clothes. I probably smell like a subway rat.”

  Fritz jumps at the invitation and shoves his laptop and textbooks into his backpack.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.” A smile splitting his happy face.

  Good old Fritz.

  Chapter 6

  By ten o’clock, I and Fritz are back at my place. I live in a small one-room apartment above Village Vapes. I have an excellent view of Leroy Street and where it intersects with Bleeker. The activity on the sidewalk never wanes in my section of Greenwich Village, and watching the droves of tourists, addicts, homeless, and shoppers never gets old.

  A quick shower, and I jump into a fresh set of clothes, which is just another chino-hoodie ensemble. Fritz is sitting on my futon, pounding away on his laptop keyboard while he waits for me. The mysterious package of books sits on a small coffee table I built out of pallet wood. Yeah. I’m handy like that.

  My OCD gets the best of me, and I pull the cheap curtains over the side-by-side windows facing the street. The only two windows in the apartment. The green glow from Village Vapes’ neon sign washes over the curtains and gives my one-room sanctuary an eerie vibe.

  “Okay, let’s do this,” I announce as I pick up the package and untie the twine, though not without effort. Apparently, Professor Shipley is an Eagle Scout with the Kidnapping and Hostage Knots badge.

  “You’re killing me, bruh. Just cut it open.”

  I’m a little surprised to see Fritz so interested to discover the identity of my mystery books. It’s not the books that have him intrigued, just the mystery of it all.

  I finally untie the Gordian knot, and Fritz rips the paper away, shreds falling to the floor.

  “Fritz! Geez! Relax. I got this.”

  He leans back, thoroughly scolded and obviously embarrassed, and lets me finish the process.

  One by one, I observe the faded and crumbling covers and titles of the seemingly ancient volumes I’ve been lent. Laying on the top of the stack are a pair of three-by-five index cards, with a handwritten note from the professor:

  Read these books in order, starting from the top. I’ve inserted small notes throughout the volumes to guide you to the relevant content. Do not let the books out of your sight! Each is a first edition and is priceless. Always carry them with you. When you are done, or need to talk, write a note on your class assignments on the back page. I will respond in kind when I hand papers back out to the class. It is important that we are not seen talking together. I can’t explain why at this time, but our communication must remain covert for now. Burn these index cards after you read them.

  ~ Prof. S.

  “Well?” Fritz bounces with anticipation. “What did Shipley say?”

  I can’t tell him. But I can’t not tell him either.

  “He said that I can’t let the books out of my sight. And that if I don’t return them in a timely manner, he’ll skin me alive.” There. That should do it. Fritz seems satisfied with my half-truth and picks up the first book.

  “Titanomachy? Never heard of it.”

  I explain to him that in Greek mythology, the Titanomachy is the war between the Olympians and the Titans—a story of rebellion against Zeus.

  “Dang, bruh. That’s some pretty impressive levels of nerdome.”

  I grab the second volume and examine the spine and cover. Chaldean Astrology.

  I’m intrigued beyond healthy levels of interest.

  I’m familiar with the Chaldeans and earlier Akkadians from a historical perspective. But I know only a factoid or two about the gods of ancient Babylon—hardly an expert in the field. However, the ritual beliefs and practices revolving around the moon and planets is something that ‘rings my bell.’

  Hard as it is to move on to the other titles, I place Chaldean Astrology down and look over the remaining three tomes:

  The Book of Enoch.

  Masonic Commentary of John’s Revelation.

  The Seal of Perseus.

  I’ve never heard of any of these books, except for John’s Revelation, that’s in the Bible. But a masonic commentary? It will either shed light on the cryptic passages, or muddy them beyond comprehension.

  Masons are like that.

  I’ll find out either way.

  “Dude, what kind of freaky geeked-out test are you gonna be taking? What the hell is Shipley teaching you in that survey class of his?” Fritz has lost interest in the books themselves, now that the mystery has evaporated. He returns to his laptop, pounding.

  “I guess you better start reading, bruh. Mind if I polish off this term paper?”

  I grab Titanomachy and perch myself on the Ikea metal chair at my tiny Ikea metal breakfast table. The book is largely uninteresting, just recounting the rebellion of the Titans against Zeus and his Olympians. I’m already familiar with the Greek pantheon and after an hour of uninspired reading, I’m about ready to put that book aside, cheat Shipley’s directions, and move on to Chaldean Astrology.

  But when I turn the next page, a small slip of paper falls out of the book and onto the floor. Hoping it might be some guidance note from the professor on exactly which passages of Titanomachy I should be reading, I bend over in my chair, pinch the paper between my right forefinger and thumb, and raise it to my face.

  There’s a strange occult symbol on one side—an upside down triangle. I immediately recall Shipley tracing such a shape on the back of his door. He later mentioned that he had “sealed it, so they can’t get in.” I examine the paper more closely and inside the triangle is a circle that touches all three inner sides. And in the circle, there are two parallel lines bending towards each other at the ends. When I pull the paper away from my face, it appears to be the eye of a serpent.

  On the back of the paper, is scribbled the word, Mirfak.

  “Whoa! What is that? A snake eye or something?” Fritz’s curiosity has rekindled, and he is standing over me, eyeballing the half-dollar-sized scrap of paper in my fingers.

  “I don’t know, Fritz. I think so. I’ve never seen this symbol before.” I stop there, not wanting to share anything more about how the professor employed this symbol to ward off the thing. I flip the paper over and show him the word on the back.

  “Mirfak?” I say aloud, as Fritz leans over my shoulder for a closer look, his eyes squinting and brain whizzing with pleasure at the mystery of it all.

  Titanomachy is suddenly knocked off the table and skids to a stop several feet away. A strange moaning howl reverberates in the walls around us, muted by ch
eap drywall and decades of mildew. With the howling, a wind rushes through the room, and the curtains flap wildly… but the windows are closed and locked.

  Fritz, frightened at the sudden disturbance, jumps backwards and trips over the coffee table, landing his back on the futon, gangly limbs sprawling in all directions.

  I jump to my feet and away from the table, the paper still pinched between my thumb and forefinger.

  The feeling returns. The icy ache in my neck and shoulders, the hairs standing on end. My stomach turns from the nauseating invisible blow of fright. A dark mass oozes from the base of the walls all around us. Like a blob of shadow, it bends and winds its way across the room, joining with other shadowy blobs.

  Roaches. An infestation beyond imagination. And they all crawl away from me and move en masse towards the door. As the flood of filthy insects swarm, they make a wide berth for the book that lies face down on the floor, cover wide open and spine pointing up to the ceiling.

  The thing is here, the Algolim. And whatever it is up to, it responds to the word I just spoke; the word on the back of the paper—the paper with the symbol.

  And the thing doesn't like it.

  Something flickers in my stomach, muting the sting of the nauseous fear. And while the ache of my neck and shoulders doesn’t fade, I’m no longer paralyzed by it. I have this strange impulse, a new urge.

  The urge to do something, to lash out at the thing that’s been tormenting me for weeks. The thing, like a bully, has relentlessly pursued me, from morning to night, looking for opportunities to corner me, to invite itself into my class, my relationships, and now my apartment.

  Well, I decide that I’m going to use the tools that Shipley has given me. I’m going to surprise this Algolim.

  “MIRFAK!” I scream with abandonment, my voice cracking with both pubescence and indignation.

  The room responds. The Algolim responds. The dark, strange, unwelcomed wind screams as it works itself into a dust devil and moves down my hallway. It snatches up the festering swarm of roaches, giving it corporeal presence, a skin suit as it were. The black mass twisting in my hallway pulses away from me and Fritz, and passes through the locked wooden door to the stairwell. Roaches and all. They just move through the middle of the wood door, vanishing upon contact as easily as they materialized moments before.

  I run to the door, quickly trace an upside-down triangle with my right thumb and whisper, “Mirfak” one last time, breathing out the words as an offering of thanks to… I don’t know—God, the Universe, Shipley.

  Whoever!

  The room is quiet and still again. The wind is gone, and the curtains hang motionless as if nothing had happened. There are no roaches lying dead on the floor, and no strange sounds from within the walls. All is quiet and still. Except for poor Fritz.

  Fritz is hyperventilating, eyes bulging at the door the thing has just passed though. His chest bounces up and down like a basketball. He’s clearly in shock, muttering nonsensical words and incoherent sentences.

  I grab a paper sack from a cabinet next to my sink and place it to his mouth. As I work with him to calmly back out of his frenzied state, I make a subtle suggestion.

  “Fritz. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. But you should know that, whatever that thing was, it’s gone. Okay?”

  Fritz nods and keeps the paper sack inflating and deflating, pumping away like bellows of sanity.

  “And another thing… Let’s not go around using this word.” I hold up the slip of paper with Mirfak inscribed on it. “I think it may be a banishment command, or talisman, or something supernaturally charged… I don’t know exactly. But I’m sure that thing was driven off by the symbol… and word.”

  I’m beginning to understand what Shipley is doing. He’s giving me… tools. He’s giving me clues, glimpses. But one thing is for dang sure.

  I don’t know what I don’t know.

  Time to hit those books.

  Chapter 7

  “What the heck was that?!” Fritz still sprawls across the futon, but he’s panting heavily still. He’s dazed from the disturbance but not quite in shock.

  “I’m not sure exactly what it is, what they are. But Shipley calls them Algolim.” I quickly check the room for any activity. The word itself is enough to prompt a disturbance. This time, all remains quiet, but I’m starting to understand the professor’s warning: names are powerful. Words are powerful.

  I turn to Fritz. His eyes are wide and unblinking. I can see that he’s scared. And I don’t blame him for second guessing his newfound friendship with me. I would never expect anyone to stick around and continue to make deposits into a camaraderie knowing that the baggage that comes along with Henry Halfmoon is bizarre and frightening beyond comparison.

  Time to come clean.

  “Fritz. I’ve been dealing with this for the past few weeks. I don’t know why or how it started. I don’t know why it chose me. But it did. And now I’m doing everything I can to learn how to deal with it, to beat it.”

  “And that’s why you went to see Shipley?”

  I nod.

  “Shipley somehow knew I was being followed and disturbed by this thing. He actually came to me.”

  Fritz eyeballs the books on the table nervously. He sees the connection and wants no part of whatever may be waiting to spring from opening the other volumes.

  “Look, bruh, it’s none of my business. That thing isn’t haunting me like it is you. But you shouldn’t meddle with that stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  Fritz hesitates. Whatever he’s about to say is challenging for his nature. He struggles to tell me the truth of his thoughts. I can guess why. He doesn’t want to lose a friend. But his concern is greater than his misgivings.

  “Occult books, strange symbols, magic… words! It’s like you’re fighting evil with evil. Dude, you need to be careful. Have you talked with a pastor or a priest or something yet?”

  “If you’ll excuse the cliché, I’m fighting fire with fire, Fritz.”

  “Yeah, bruh, exactly. And you just dipped your toe into those forces, or whatever.. You’re struggling against something that knows the rules and can’t be seen. It can see you! But you just… you don’t… just be careful. Shipley is a smart man, for sure. But you should seriously talk to someone else and get a little perspective, you know?”

  I can see his point. It’s obvious that the Algolim are supernatural entities, and faith leaders have been keen to this type of activity for centuries.

  My mom would agree with Fritz. She’d insist I talk to a pastor.

  But my mom, as much as she claims to know about the supernatural, and as much as she can prattle on about ‘demons’ and ‘other realms,’ never had any remedy for actually dealing with disturbances.

  Shipley gave me tools, answers.

  He also gave me a mantra. I don’t know what I don’t know.

  “Maybe you’re right, Fritz. Do you know anybody I can go talk to? A pastor somewhere nearby?”

  “You should talk with Pastor Elliot. He’s the main guy at City Life Fellowship in Uptown.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were a churchgoer, Fritz. And you go all the way to Uptown every week?”

  Fritz declines to answer as to his attendance record but continues to insist I see Pastor Elliot.

  I relent and after a fitful sleep, I catch the subway to Uptown.

  City Life Fellowship is just over five blocks from the subway stop, and the walk to the church is a grueling contest of commitment. The whole way I’m telling myself that I’m wasting my time and that I need to be reading Shipley’s books… especially Chaldean Astrology. What could a local Evangelical pastor possibly have to offer compared to that? But my word to Fritz must be kept.

  I walk into the church, and I’m a little surprised that there’s service being held in full force on a Friday morning. Otherwise, it’s everything I expect… and deplore… about ‘modern church.’ Services start with music. And it’s not great music
. It’s a bunch of third-rate local musicians putting on a concert in a dark room. There’s a stage and lights. There are a few people holding microphones and singing the lead part at the front of the band. They’re horrible at singing, worse, in fact, than the instrumentalists are at ‘instrumentalizing,’ but it’s the best the church has to offer.

  The vocalists (which is an overly gracious word for them) dreamily regurgitate their squeaky clean lyrics, mimicking the posture and gestures of all the television contestants they've seen be ripped apart on American Idol and America’s Got Talent. They’re living a cheap carbon copy of that fantasy.

  The seats for the congregation are arranged in long curved rows, a semicircle oriented to face the center of the stage. The room is completely dark, lights dimmed almost to nothing, so that only the electric light show washing the stage gives the people in the seats only one option for where their eyes should go.

  The whole act is one big hypocrisy. The people in the seats are supposed to be worshiping their god. The band is allegedly leading them in that worship. But everything about the band, the vocalists, and the stage lighting scream, “Hey! Look at me! Isn’t this a great concert? Are you entertained?”

  Those poor souls in the seats must shut out the noise and attention whoring from the vocalists and band to get any worshiping done. And apparently, they’re failing. I stand in the back and observe the silhouettes of the congregation. They stand completely still. No hands are raised to heaven. No clapping or swaying back and forth. I’m guessing that many of them have their arms crossed in boredom, though I can’t see their arms in the dark. I can’t see their faces either, only the backs of their heads, an opaque wall of unmoved, unimpressed, bored people. I’m guessing they’re not participating in the adult-geared Jesus singalong.

  The set of opening songs are fast paced, then most predictably, the slow songs start. And the warbling of the self-worshiping vocalist wannabes becomes long and drawn out. They close their eyes, tilt their heads, and make to look like they’re caught up in the emotion of it all. But it’s no different from if they were singing in their own showers… which is exactly the place they should leave their musical aspirations.