Raising an eyebrow, he took an incredulous tone and said, “Why wouldn’t I?”
She laughed, relieved to hear him joke with her. “I have to admit it’s a rather odd interest.”
“It is. But he said you’re trying to save a friend of yours. And to stop some other people from getting hurt.” He shrugged, sadness in his eyes. “That’s not so odd.”
“A bit like what you were doing in the war?”
“A bit.” He picked up the guitar again. “So what’ll it be? Sunshine or rain?”
“Definitely sunshine,” she said.
“This is bound to be a little rusty,” he said as he began to strum the chords with a happy sounding rhythm. He hit a few sour notes, but soon he had the feeling for the song and began singing to her. His voice was low but sweet, and she felt a chill rise up her neck and across her shoulders. He sang only two verses before stopping with a shrug and saying, “That’s all I know of that one.”
She clapped lightly and said, “That was nice.”
“Thanks,” he said as he put the guitar aside again. “I’ll work on something a little more up to date for you for next time.”
“Okay,” she said quietly, thinking about the implications of next time. “I’ll look forward to that.”
“You know…” he said, “I look forward to seeing you all the time.”
“Me, too.”
Without saying another word, he leaned over and kissed her lightly, his lips brushing hers in the dark and then pulling away before she had a chance to respond. She turned to him and smiled.
“Is that all right?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, still smiling, and said nothing—just touched his cheek and leaned over to kiss him back. It lasted longer this time, and Marie grew warm all over.
“We should go out,” he said. “Just us.”
“Nothing against Jasper?”
Tom smiled. “He was young once. He’ll understand.”
They stayed in the gazebo for almost another hour, Marie leaning in closer to him as the night grew colder. They kissed several more times in between exchanged stories about their pasts. At one point, Tom put the guitar in her lap and wrapped his arms around her to guide her fingers and show her how to make a few simple chords. She was terrible at it, and they both laughed before kissing some more. By the time Marie forced herself to get up and begin making her exit, she felt as if she had known Tom forever. He walked her through the house and out to her car where they stood embracing and kissing each other goodnight for a long time.
When she got home, Marie told herself it would be difficult to fall asleep. Her heart still pounded whenever she thought of what had happened. But only minutes after she had switched off her bedroom light and pulled the blankets up, she fell into a sleep more peaceful than she had known in a long, long time.
* * * * * * * *
The following day was Saturday, and Marie went to the bookstore just as she had done throughout the week. All day, thoughts caromed off each other; not only did she worry about Elise, but she also replayed her bizarre meeting with Laura Tremaine and wondered if the poor woman had already had further encounters with her demon lover. As serious as these things were, though, her thoughts continuously gravitated back to Tom. She replayed the night before, lingering over the smooth brush of his lips on hers, the wonderful feeling of his strong hands on her shoulders, and the way he caressed her cheeks with his fingers. All day, she had resisted the urge to call Jasper’s home and talk to Tom. Giddy as a teenager, she contented herself to wait until late afternoon and a repeat of the week’s routine. The trick tonight, she told herself, would be to find a way to get Tom alone again, and she hoped he would be a willing co-conspirator.
Walking from her car to the bookstore, she forced herself to hide the secret smile she had worn most of the day and readied herself for a bit of casual conversation with Jasper before helping him load his bike and heading back to his house for more research. But when she entered, she found Jasper in a far more excited state than she had come to expect. His demeanor was always pleasantly relaxed, especially in the store. Only at home did he get energized. Today, however, was different.
As soon as she opened the door, a little bell ringing above it, Marie saw Jasper hop off his stool and rush toward her. “Marie!” he said, his voice almost a shout. He held a book in his right hand, and as he approached her he shifted it to his left so he could reach out and flip the “Open” sign in the window over to “Closed.” Marie looked at her watch in surprise and saw that it was only 4:15, a full forty-five minutes before Jasper normally locked up. Now he slipped his key into the deadbolt on the door, tested the lock, and turned toward the little office he kept at the back of the store. Dumbfounded, Marie had not moved, and when he saw that she was not following, he impatiently said, “Come on. You’ve got to see this. I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon.”
Intrigued, Marie followed. She had never been inside his office before, yet she could have easily guessed what it would look like—a cluttered mess with stacks of books on the floor and unopened mail on the desk. She had to smile when she stepped into a little room that fit her expectations exactly. Jasper quickly pulled out a wooden chair from across the desk and removed a pile of books from it, indicating that Marie should sit. The only other furniture in the room were a small filing cabinet and a small safe, each in different corners. Jasper perched himself on the edge of the desk, his bony legs still touching the floor.
Opening the book he had been carrying, he said, “I think I found something that can shed a bit more light on things.” He held the book up proudly. “Been reading a translation of a Chinese demonology. Very old in the original. Listen: ‘ Once the love spirit’—that’s the term the translator has used—‘Once the love spirit has taken human form, it can approximate any appearance that pleases it. It can also change its appearance at will.’” He looked up from the book to be sure Marie was paying attention, his expression one of childlike excitement.
Marie nodded encouragement, but said. “Yes, but we already knew that, right?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, impatiently holding up a finger to indicate that she should wait for more. “Just listen. ‘The being is fragile in this state and can easily be eradicated or cast out. Knowing this, it seeks energy from its victims, usually leaving them in a state of torpor, sometimes all but killing them in its withdrawal of their spirit into itself.’” He looked up again, his smile even wider. “Now what do you think?”
“My God,” she gasped. “That’s what they’re doing. That’s what he did to Elise, what they’re doing to all those other women. Taking their…what? Their souls?” She thought of Laura Tremaine in her little apartment no less than a mile away and of what else might have happened there since Marie had last spoken to her.
Jasper shrugged. “Call it what you will. The book says spirit. A Christian would have said soul. Others may call it life energy or ka or who knows what. The point is they’re taking it to sustain themselves and gain strength. They’re like vampires.”
Marie exhaled loudly and looked at the floor, trying to take it all in. Then she said, “But Jasper, this is just one report. From the Chinese, you said? But this wasn’t a Chinese spell or book or—”
“That doesn’t matter! You’re right that this might be an anomalous report, but it certainly fits what we’re looking at with these creatures, and I’ll bet if we dig further we’ll find references that support this one. But the bigger point isn’t that these demons are Chinese or American, Buddhist or Christian or followers of Aimee Semple MacPherson. They’re real is the point.”
“But how can it be? I mean, it’s a spell in Latin written down by a Christian monk. How can it…?”
“Work on Chinese demons?” Jasper chuckled. “That’s my point. They’re not Chinese. They’re not really even demons in the sense that they had any sort of existence before being conjured by your Mr. Krebs.”
“I don’t understand.”
&n
bsp; “I thought all the things we’d been poring over would have made this clearer to you, Marie. But perhaps I should have explained a bit more directly. You’re viewing all of this through a Christian lens, trying to make sense of it according to your own theology. The thing you need to keep in mind, my dear, is that spiritualism, demonology and the like really aren’t about entities, but energies. Good and evil, if you like. Positive and negative, yin and yang. It’s all of a piece. One can channel positive energies if one knows how. Most of us don’t, but the ones who are good at it usually make sense of it by calling it a guardian angel or something similar. The same goes for the negative. It’s not like there’s an angel or a demon in some corner of heaven or hell just waiting to be summoned. But rather the right actions—often words—along with absolute, unbending faith, Marie, faith can draw these energies together and effectively create something out of nothing. Colin Krebs used that book of spells to cause a highly destructive male sexual energy to converge into something that now takes on the characteristics of a being—in this case, an extremely mischievous and wily sort of being who is bent on preserving himself while letting his sexual nature run its course. Is this making sense?”
“I think so,” Marie said. She had been listening intently, trying to understand everything he was saying. “So if what you’re saying is true, then Colin would have needed to believe the spell was going to work?”
“Yes.”
“But how could he believe it so fervently? For it to work?”
“He had to believe. Raised a Catholic, he was primed for this through all the ritual and rote memorization and guilt over his own impure thoughts. And you make it sound as though he also believed unequivocally in the power of Julian Piedmont. I think it’s possible he made himself believe the spell could work because Piedmont had made it clear that he expected it to work, that he would take its failure as Colin Krebs’ failure, which Krebs could not stand the thought of.”
Marie nodded. “It makes sense,” she said. Then she tilted her head toward the book in Jasper’s hands. “Does that say anything about whether there’s hope for the victim?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, the subject doesn’t come up. My guess, though, is that if this is accurate, the results are similar to what one might expect of a victim of vampirism. Once some of the victim’s blood—or in this case, the energy or spirit or soul—has been withdrawn, there is no real way to get it back.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Marie clenched her jaw. Her ire began to rise again at the idea that there would be no relief for Elise’s suffering. “So how do we stop them?”
“Keep more women from ending up like your friend?”
Marie nodded her response.
Jasper shrugged. “This book doesn’t say. But it seems to me that if it’s faith and a spell that brought these creatures into being, faith and a spell should cause the negative energies to dissipate. Or rather, faith and a prayer. I would think that, for you, one of the Christian prayers used in exorcism would get the job done. That and the little relic I gave you.”
“And for you?” she asked.
Jasper smiled. “I have faith in very little, my dear. I don’t think I would be much use in slaying demons.” He looked at her for a moment, and she saw for the first time that he looked worried about her. “Whatever you decide to do, Marie, please talk it over with me first. We must consider all of this very carefully. This is very dangerous ground you’re thinking of treading on. Besides,” he added, “you would have to consider the fact that Julian Piedmont could just conjure more demons if you were to slay the ones he’s already created.”
“That’s true,” she said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that. Any suggestions?”
Jasper smiled. “We find a way to get the book away from him. I’d give it a good home, you know. Could Krebs be deputized?”
She considered it for a moment. “Possibly,” she said. “Dangle redemption in front of him, and he might.”
“We’ll think on it some more. Enough for today, eh?”
Marie smiled. “Agreed.”
She had set her purse down on the floor and was about to bend down and retrieve it when Jasper hopped off the edge of the desk, and she was able to see for the first time the wall behind him. A small painting hung in the space between his framed business license and a battered clock, immediately drawing her eye. She forgot her purse and stood up to get a better look. “What in the world is that?” she asked.
Dark shades of blue and purple dominated the painting’s background with at least the top two-thirds being taken up with the image of a dark chamber whose walls faded to black in the distance. At the bottom of the painting, though, was the image of a terrified woman tied to an altar, her hands and feet bound with heavily knotted ropes. Her white dress stood in sharp contrast to the dark background; it had been ripped to the waist, exposing her breasts. At the head of the altar was a cloaked and menacing figure pointing a bony finger in her direction. The painting had an unsettling effect on Marie.
“That?” Jasper said, turning to admire the image. “That’s my little souvenir from Margaret Brundage.”
“You’re kidding,” Marie said. She knew Brundage’s work well. It had been featured on many of her favorite issues of Weird Tales from the 1930s and almost always depicted women in provocative situations. Marie moved around the desk to get a closer look and now saw the familiar “M. Brundage” signature in the bottom corner. She could picture the magazine’s logo emblazoned over the dark colors. “I don’t remember seeing this one,” she said. “It’s a bit racy.”
“I understand that many of Margaret’s originals had full nudity. They were touched up at the office to satisfy the censors.”
“And she gave this to you? When?”
“About five or six years ago, I believe. I heard a rumor that she had an unpublished Lovecraft manuscript, so I went to see her in Chicago and made her an offer. She threw in the painting for a little extra.”
Now Marie turned to Jasper, dumbfounded once more. “You have an unpublished Lovecraft? What is it?”
“Here. I’ll show you.” He walked to the little safe in the corner, spun the dial back and forth for a few seconds, and opened it with a click. Squatting, he pulled a small stack of papers from it and thumbed through them quickly before pulling a stapled typescript from the stack and returning the rest. “Careful,” he said as he handed it to Marie. “As far as I know, it’s one of a kind.”
She was afraid to touch it, but took it from him regardless. Centered near the top of the first page were the words “The Depths of Catharog,” Lovecraft’s name neatly typed below. “Jesus,” she whispered. Marie had read most of Lovecraft’s stories and had never heard of this one.
Clearly amused at her reaction, Jasper shrugged, making his acquisition seem rather commonplace. “I haven’t been able to decide what to do with it, so here it sits, nice and safe. I’m afraid if I try to publish it or sell it at auction, the people looking after Lovecraft’s estate will just try to claim it as theirs. You can read it if you’d like.”
“I don’t know what to say. How did Margaret Brundage end up with it?”
“Farnsworth Wright—the editor of Weird Tales? He wanted her to base the cover on it. That’s what she got.” He pointed to the painting. “It was for the December ‘36 issue. And before the final layout of the magazine was set, Robert Howard killed himself. So the editors decided to use an illustration from one his stories for the cover instead. Margaret told me that Lovecraft was furious, more at the editors for trying to capitalize on Howard’s death than for taking the spotlight off his own piece. I’m not sure I believe her, though. At any rate, he refused to allow them to use the story at all, so the painting never got sent in. As I recall, Lovecraft reconciled with Wright, but he gave them a different story for the issue, insisting that the one Margaret had done this cover for be used later.” He shrugged and sighed, continuing the story. “But then Lovecraft himself died in ‘37, and
Margaret was left with the manuscript and the painting.” He indicated the story in Marie’s hand. “You be careful with it, now, and you can bring it back to me in a day or two.”
“I’m almost afraid to,” Marie said.
“Shhh,” Jasper gestured insistently. He took the story from her and slipped it into a thick, legal-sized folder that he pulled from a desk drawer, then handed it back. “There’s a lot more in this world to be afraid of, Marie.”
She held the folder tightly, fearful the manuscript would slip out. “I think you may be right,” she said.
Chapter Fourteen
Laura kept her apartment as dark as possible now. All she wanted to do was sleep. When she was awake, she had the most disturbing thoughts. Every little noise from the hallway started her mind racing. She pictured Marie Doyle coming back to harass her further, convincing herself that if the nosy bitch cooked up a story the police would believe, they’d come and take her away. The only thing that bothered her about the idea of being hauled off to jail or an asylum was that it would mean no more Taylor. And Laura was convinced that she would die without him. More than anything, it was her fear of somehow losing Taylor that worried her in her waking moments—the fear that Taylor would find someone else, that he’d tire of her, that he’d be found out by a wife or some other lover and somehow be kept away from Ivar Street. Laura trembled at the thought of languishing here without him, of lying in the darkened room day after day and listening to passing footsteps in the hall, none of them stopping at her door.
When she slept, though, everything was right. In her dreams, she either had Taylor or some thinly disguised substitute. The bat creature figured heavily in many of her dreams, and she had come to see him as just a different version of Taylor, one who was not at all frightening, but whose bizarre appendages and appearance simply symbolized all the ways Taylor was different from every man she had ever known. In other dreams, she was held in a dungeon, chained to a wall with her legs forced open while semi-human guards did unspeakable things to her until Taylor would burst in and rescue her, breaking her shackles and then taking her there on the floor, the broken bodies of her captors spread all around. Strangely, at that point in the dreams, she would notice that the dead and dying guards all looked like Marie Doyle.
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