by Paff, M B
The Black Book
A Short Story by M B Paff
He ran into darkness. His feet failed and, for a frenetic moment, he feared that he would fall. His stumble would mean his end – first the possession, then the pain, and finally, unending torture. He did not fall, however, and his frantic dash continued. Perhaps it too would be eternal, the flight out of the dark, scrambling, hurrying, beseeching, or perhaps it could only end in the release from life, the temporary agony before unending darkness. The temptation tingled in his bowels to capitulate, but he did not stop. To surrender would result in death, surely, but not before unspeakable agonies blossomed in his flesh like a garden of hell. No, he ran and gasped and struggled.
There were cold stones beneath this feet, slick with vileness and dangerously uneven. Behind him was a black and violet fog and before him was a gray vagueness, like a dream fading from wakefulness. Such fear pulsed within his chest that he feared it would unman him – devolve his essence into a whimpering, pathetic animal, deserving of pity and contempt. Only his dedication to the craft and the knowledge he carried prevented the release into terror. He had not expected this, of course not, how could one rationalize chaos? The goal must be accomplished. The reward was worth the price and the danger.
In his hands, clutched to his chest, was the book. Its iron latches pressed against his belly and weighed his arms with exponential fatigue. It whispered to him. At first he had not detected it, but now, as he reached the exit, the voice of the book called to him.
He felt a soaking wetness through the torn fabric of his shirt and knew it to be his blood. The marks across his back and shoulders burned like hot sand. Each footstep squelched as the blood pooled in his shoes. There were bites on his legs and thighs, small and irregular as if from a vicious, infant hydra. Sweat and blood stung his left eye and his right was restricted by swelling to a narrow slit of sight. He tasted his own blood.
The book. The book. It was everything - every reward, every pleasure, and every dream fulfilled. There was no maximum price to pay, in blood or pain, that could eclipse the value of its worth. He had done what no one had ever accomplished – learning of its existence, discovering its location, and retrieving it from innumerable dangers. Fear, hope, and victory fueled his flight and audacity gave his feet wings.
Screams of rage came from the darkness behind him, within the black fog from which he fled. No human could product such sounds. The cacophony of it reflected the bloodthirst of a teeming host, punctuated by boundless echoes, the scrape of claws on stone, and panting, desperate hunger. There must be thousands of them, he suspected, his feet scrambling over slick rock, a hymn of hatred and anger screeching from a hellish chorus.
For the first time he felt something against his face other than the chill dampness of this place. The exit. It was as he had left it. There were words he knew he must utter before he could reach it. Terror scrambled his memory and for a moment, a moment which stilled the breath in his lungs, he forgot the key. All the years of dedication and careful, painful planning did not fail him, however, as the spidery words emerged into his thoughts. His cracked and crusted lips almost refused to give shape to the key, but again the discipline he had earned was not so easily banished. He spoke the words and the chains about the portal released.
There was resistance from the book. Each step closer to the light added weight to its iron edges. A magnetic repulsion began to build between it and his escape. The screams magnified behind him as slowly, step by step, he slowed.
Terror and icy tendrils reached out and grasped his defiled flesh. He howled in pain and despair. The book dragged toward the stones below as the blood quickened from his flesh. Weakness and capitulation rose as betrayers.
His will did not desert him. With all the force and strength gained from decades of preparation, he toward the portal – a disc of shining, milky whiteness – and across its threshold.
The damp, aching chill was gone. There was no transition between the corridor of slimy stones and the hard floor of his library. It was as if he had thrown himself through a window – a hole between worlds. He lay gasping, sweat and blood pooling, and listened. Quiet. Dusty, empty, dark silence stretched around him. No pursuit. Pain and adrenaline sharpened his senses enough to mark each mote of dust passing in the flickering candlelight. He smelled the familiar scents of his library – pipe tobacco, old leather, ink, and worn canvas. Chalk drawn sigils decorated the old, stained floor below him, now partially eclipsed by his blood. The book pressed painfully against his groin and belly.
His wounds must be attended quickly. Weakness and lethargy tugged upon him, but there was a great deal of work still to do.
He could not guess at the duration of his absence. It seemed the same night as his departure, but darkness, blood loss, and panic prevented an accurate hypothesis.
Distantly and distractedly he heard an incessant whisper. It was too faint to understand completely and he felt the words more than he heard them, as if there was a radio transceiver in his belly, accepting the signal.
The book weighed a dozen pounds. By candlelight he scrutinized the black cover. Unadorned by ostentation or title, the tome seemed to absorb the light. Iron plates, pitted with rust, bound it from spine to edge like demon’s claws. The edges of each page were roughly cut and thick. There appeared to be several hundred pressed between black covers. For a moment, as his blood still flowed, he allowed himself the thrill of realization that here, now, in his hands was the ambition of his life. Success. Years of savage study and experimentation had at long last yielded the prize of prizes. He had not wept upon experiencing the horrors of that other realm, solemnly viewing the fierce terrors and brutal tortures of a place drenched in pure chaos, but now, sitting on the floor of his library, a tear gathered in his swollen eye.
It was on him like a wanton whore. One moment his library had been empty and the next it was there – ferocious, hungry, and wearing the form of a hellish temptress, a succubae. He attempted to bring up the book and make it a shield between them, but its smile disarmed him. It was naked and its pale skin gleamed like bone in the moonlight. The candlelight stroked its back and buttocks like a lover. Its breasts, swollen and smooth, brushed against his injured flesh. His blood colored its nipples. The whore’s hair was a gleaming mass of black curls that teased his chest with such softness and anticipation that his penis responded without hesitation. Its tongue licked blood and sweat from his chin and lips. Though its hands were pressed against the floor at his shoulders, he felt fingers, hot and urgent, grope his crotch. His back arched in response as his discipline failed him. The protections so painstakingly built, across months of research and a thousand libraries, fell from his mind like pale dreams from distant nights. The book tumbled from his right arm and he pushed it away like an annoyance.
The succubae sucked away his life through his tremulous mouth and turgid phallus. The demon, if demon it was, then discarded his desiccated corpse. Within moments the flesh turned to ash and wafted away.
From the moment it had crossed into the mortal realm its power had been reduced. All things must obey the laws of existence and here, separated from its hellish plane, its power was reduced to a fraction of its former eminence.
Hell’s bitch could not grasp the book, though it tried ferociously till the flesh was stripped from its arms. It could hear the voice of the book, but there was a barrier between them that had never existed before. It hissed and spat like a cornered cat, but the book was as immobile as an iron anvil.
It would not be long before Abaddon’s screaming hordes learned of the theft. The trespass was an embarrassment, indeed, but the removal of the tome would have more dire repercussions than simply fostering rumor. Its power would be questioned. Its authority could be
challenged and now it lacked the ability to fully defend itself as its power was reduced by the absence of its tool. The hierarchies of Hell often shifted over much less.
The demons of Abaddon were strong and clever, but without a mortal instrument, there was little direct action they could take within the physical realm. Other, more subtle methods must be employed to reacquire the tome.
***
“You gonna answer that?”
“Its Friday, fuck work.”
“Didja just say ‘fuck work’? What are you a rich man to turn down a job? Answer the fucking phone, bitch.” Tae’s voice was playful and serious, as if reminding a child that chores must be done before dinner was served.
Sawyer Silva groaned like an impatient bear. It was fitting, indeed, for his appearance was especially ursine. Big shoulders, thick neck, strongly built appendages, and ample belly were surmounted by a bristly brown-red beard and cropped hair. His face was too broad to be called handsome, but his deep blue-green eyes contained an infectious mirth even more appealing.
Sawyer was driving his work truck, a dirty white F250 – ladders strapped to a bed frame over a steel toolbox behind the cab. Complete Remodel Services was displayed on the doors and tailgate.
Technically, Tae was right, they were still at work. The caller ID on his iPhone displayed “Kelly B-D Reals”. Kelly from Burke-Daniels Real Estate Brokers was calling.
“CRS, this is Sawyer. Yeah, hey Kelly, what’s up?” A pause. “Oh yeah? How old?” A longer pause of two minutes. “Just where is that?” Sawyer turned to Taevous Wright, his employee and friend occupying the passenger seat, and whispered “Devlin?” Tae, confused, shook his head. “I guess I can find it, that’s what they make GPS for, right?” A long silence of several minutes during which Tae could faintly hear Kelly’s voice speaking as if from a list. “OK, ok. Send me everything in that email, address, directions, the whole bit. Yeah, I can do it, but this weekend is toast, Kelly, I got plans.” Again, Kelly’s voice faintly squawking for a minute. “Well, OK, if it’s that important. I guess a little trip won’t be bad. Let me talk to my crew and I’ll call you back in a bit, OK?”
Tae looked at his friend and employer quizzically. “Did I just hear you make plans for me this weekend?” Tae was the Ren to Sawyer’s Stimpy, the Sponge Bob to Sawyer’s Patrick, or Abbott to Sawyer’s Costello. He was tall, taller than his employer, with a deep chestnut complexion like Lucchese leather boots, narrow shoulders, a wide chin, wiry arms and an ironic smile. Also unlike Sawyer, not a single hair grew from Tae’s scalp or cheeks.
“Your fault, bitch,” said Sawyer, big bearded face grinning, “I wasn’t gonna answer that.”
“So?”
“Burke Daniels just got hired to market some old plantation in Devlin. Kelly says it’s just south of Macon.” Just south of Macon was roughly a two hour drive from their current location, driving through the suburbs of northeastern Atlanta. “They wanna move fast on this, get it up and ready in a few months. I guess the market is white hot down there.”
“We ain’t gonna be doin’ much over a weekend.”
“Yeah, they want a survey done. Gives us a big advantage if they’re gonna bid it out.”
Tae grinned, shiny white teeth glowing within a dark complexion, “And what if your ‘crew’ has got better things to do?”
“Better things?” Asked the big man, “Since when do you got something to do when you ain’t working?”
Tae groaned in mock pain. “Shut up, you fat white boy, you the last person should be talkin’ about havin’ a life.”
“Fuck you, jigaboo.”
“Fuck you, cracker bitch.”
The truck entered a small industrial park and pulled to a stop before a darkened office. A row of equally featureless offices stretched on either side. The door was emblazoned with the logo of CRS, an outline of a home with Complete Remodel Services within it. Sawyer rented the space when the paperwork, files, billing folders, and foot traffic forced him out of the spare room within his small three bedroom townhome.
“Seriously, buddy, I need you.” Sawyer turned to his employee, the engine of his big diesel truck rumbling in the empty lot, “Three hundred bucks and the pleasure of my company all weekend.”
“Shit fuck!” Tae ground his big hands together, “Damn, damn, damn.”
“Whaddya say?”
“Ok, allright, you got me, but you gonna throw in all the food and hotel.”
“Fuck a hotel,” grinned Sawyer, “I got camping gear and we got a plantation to sleep at.”
“I ain’t calling you masser”.
“Go get your shit and meet me back here in an hour. I’ll pull the directions that Kelly is sending. We just gotta make a stop at her office and pick up the key. Get some gear, too. We can make it down to Devlin by nine if we hurry.”
“Allright, boss man, make sure you pack some beer too you cheap summabitch.”
The interstate was sparsely populated travelling through Atlanta, and the two men made excellent progress. Their only stop was a short errand to retrieve the property’s keys from the apartment of Kelly’s junior associate. Daylight Savings Time had ended the weekend past, so the sun had set with, in their opinion, shocking haste. The weather was fair but chilly, an unusual and early bitterness rode the blustery winds, shedding leaves just beginning to turn to autumn brilliance.
Fifteen miles south of Macon, Sawyer turned off I-75, and entered the pine forests of central and southern Georgia. Sporadic street lamps, homes, and the infrequent headlights of passing cars were the only illumination. The stars shone like icicles in a moonless sky.
Tae alternated between conversation with his friend and a light doze, as deep as one could slumber in a truck that rumbled like a World War II tank patrol.
Sawyer consumed two Quarter Pounders, more to keep himself awake than to satisfy hunger, as he navigated through a still and monotonous night. The burgers and the syrupy Coke kept his eyes open and a steady foot on the gas.
The F250’s GPS had no record of the address or even the road leading to the property. The directions ended as the two men passed through Devlin, a sleepy town of ancient magnolias and a harshly lit Wal-Mart. Once past the little town, Sawyer slowed and searched for a county road described in Kelly’s directions. The big man obliviously passed the intersection initially, and was forced to make an awkward U-turn.
The road was narrow and cut through a dense forest of long leaf pine, unblemished by any homes or businesses for several miles. To one side the forest eventually diminished into fenced pastureland dotted with the shadows of sleeping cattle.
At 10 o’clock the truck came to an aluminum gate, locked with bolt and chain. One of the keys fetched from BD Realty opened the lock. Sawyer turned onto the drive and continued for a mile down an eroded path of red clay and potholes.
“This really couldn’t be any creepier,” Tae commented, seeing only the reflected dashboard through his passenger window. “Does nobody got electricity down here in the fuckin’ sticks?”
“The whole world ain’t Atlanta and thank God for that.”
“I got no fucking service on my phone. This is bullshit, are we gonna be off the fuckin’ grid the whole weekend?”
Sawyer shrugged, “Wasn’t expectin’ it. This is the old fucking South, remember?”
The truck’s headlights reflected off a structure, through the tall grass and scrub bordering the drive, like gravestones scattered in a forgotten cemetery. Sawyer turned a shallow corner and stopped slowly before a large structure, now etched in harsh black lines by his high beams. To the left of the truck was a narrow shed and behind it a larger barn. The house was immense, a gothic revival with white clapboard siding and graying trim. Like its architecture contemporaries, the house was basically square, surrounded by a covered porch on three sides and surmounted by steeply peaked gables, three above the front porch and one on either side. A third floor rose above a small gallery on the second, topped by three doubled gabled window
s. The roof rose in a steep pitch to a broad ridge that bisected the home from east to west. Four fat masonry chimneys bisected the roof line. Though difficult to tell in the darkness, Sawyer glimpsed a foundation of red brick, interrupted by deep recesses suggesting a basement below. The windows were tall and broad, as houses built a century ago often were, before air conditioning. Black shutters, fading to gray, ran parallel to each. The windows of the second floor gallery appeared to be stained glass. In all, the house suggested massive, robust age, and appeared in better condition than either Sawyer or Tae had expected.
The front yard was untamed and untended. Patches of weeds and seedling pine stretched from the front stairs to the edge of the bordering forest. West of the house, lost in shadow and gloom, a small well house was shrouded in wild growth.
The air was harshly chill to flesh that still remembered the hot breath of summer. Sawyer’s breath frosted in the glare of the headlights. Tae shrugged into a windbreaker.
The porch was shrouded in shadow and the windows appeared like gaping wounds.
The big carpenter retrieved a duffel bag and a rolled sleeping bag from the rear seat, while Tae grabbed a second sleeping bag and a backpack. “Guess we got no light or heat, huh?” he asked, watching Sawyer grab a couple of flashlights from the glove compartment.
“No utilities until next week. Glad I brought these, but we’re gonna have to start a fire if its as cold inside as it is out here.”
“Prob’ly a bad idea,” Tae responded, “at least till we can look at those chimneys. I don’t wanna burn this place down on the first night.”
Sawyer nodded, “Good point.”
After two steps toward the entrance, Tae paused, while Sawyer hunted for a toolbox. The truck’s headlights would self-extinguish within moments, but it still bathed the face of the house. It looked angry, if a structure could be infused by an emotion, and it filled Tae with a nervous twinge he refused to identify as fear. There were secrets behind its dark window panes. A malevolence oozed from its brick foundation like radon gas. Tae felt the house’s reaction to his presence and its seething anger. He dismissed his fear as unmanly, though he was grateful of his boss’ presence. This was no place to be alone.