The Black Book

by Paff, M B

  Sawyer joined him just as the headlights switched off. The two men swept the stairs and front door with their flashlights. Old rattan rocking chairs were lined on either side like a graying, phantasmagoric chorus. Two fans hung from the blue painted ceiling, their blades bent downward like the petals of a withered flower.

  As they climbed the last step a breath of rank air, sickly sweet and noxious, became apparent. Sawyer wrinkled his nose, “Smells like a possum.”

  To Tae, the smell brought back memories of his home, a brick tenement managed by the city of Gainesville, Georgia, and the many times rats would die and rot within the walls.

  Sawyer hated dead things. He avoided roadkill with supreme resolution and refused to look at it when he drove past. Death, rot, blood, torn tissue, and broken bones all curdled his stomach. The big man felt a nascent headache begin to throb beneath his left temple.

  The entry consisted of double doors – massive, hand hewn slabs of oak. Red paint flaked from its beveled panes. An old copper knocker was affixed to both doors, now green with verdigris, in the likeness of a bearded man’s face with grapes in his hair. The lock yielded effortlessly to the key.

  The door opened with protest. No one, according to Kelly, had entered the home since the sheriff had returned a week after the owner’s disappearance. They were announced by the squeal of rusted hinges.

  Tae shone his flashlight into the dusty interior. “The previous owner disappeared, right?”

  Sawyer nodded.

  “I’m in no damn mood to find a dead body in here, godammit.”

  Sawyer agreed, “No corpses in the contract.”

  Inside, the entrance was contained by a foyer – round, supported by columns set flush with the walls, and breached on flanking sides by pairs of double doors. Before them an arched opening led into a galleried hall surmounted by a vast, gnarled staircase. The foyer contained a covered table upon which sat a crystal vase holding the long stems of dead flowers. In the actinic whiteness of their LED flashlights dust motes floated like schools of fish.

  Sawyer was reminded of a funeral home. Tae remembered an episode of a ghost hunter reality show, filmed live on Halloween night.

  The air was still and cold, though warmer than outside, as if the house contained a breath it had not yet released. It smelled of dust, mildew, and the faint, creeping rankness of a dead thing.

  Sawyer moved his flashlight overhead, to the ceiling. A chandelier hung from a carved medallion, its crystal pendants covered in gray dust. Ancient dental molding trimmed the parlor like a wedding cake. The home was as quiet as outer space.

  “Maybe we should check out the shed or the barn,” suggested Tae, his voice as soft and hush as a church whisper.

  The big, shaggy carpenter answered with a thundering belch that echoed throughout the house, “Bullshit,” Sawyer shouted, “Fuck all haunted houses!” His bravado echoed queerly.

  The doors to their left opened into a large parlor furnished with dusty leather chairs, of modern design, and electronics. Sawyer picked a broad couch for his bed while Tae dusted off a chaise lounge. “You wanna look around before we bed down?”

  “Not really,” answered the bearded man, sinking into the plump leather cushions, “I’m beat. Plenty of time tomorrow to explore this creepy muthafucker later.”

  A weight on his shoulders, a sense of movement behind him, a tickle against his left earlobe – these sensations happened concurrently with sudden, gasping speed. Tae froze, as still as if he stood amongst a mine field.

  Sawyer’s noticed the transition. His flashlight speared his frozen friend. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think something’s on me,” Tae answered, his lips barely moving. Terror clenched his spine with frozen fingers and sweat beaded his brow. Faintly, he heard a buzzing from behind his left ear.

  Sawyer rose his bulk from the couch, quickly for a man his size, responding to the concern in his buddy’s voice. “Turn around”.

  Tae wore a thick Carhartt henley. It was a deep green. Every inch of its surface, from the nape of his neck to his waist, was covered in crawling, flapping, buzzing, black and white, bald-faced hornets.

  Sawyer froze in disbelief. His mind warred against the input from his eyes. Surely he was mistaken, for this could not be real. Such a thing was not possible.

  Three years ago, while removing stucco from a suburban home, Tae and Sawyer had uncovered a nest of the devilish, stinging fiends. The swarm included over a hundred, each as large as a walnut, with a stinger as long as a tack. Luckily, the two men escaped with only a couple stings each, but the memory of the pounding, burning pain was still fresh in their minds.

  “Fuck me walking,” gasped Sawyer.

  “What – what the fuck?”

  “OK, buddy. Don’t fucking move. You’re gonna take your shirt off, fast like, when I say go and we’re gonna get outta here, back through that door, real fast like.”

  Tae was stuttering with fear, “What’s on me, man? What the fuck is on me?”

  “One,” Sawyer grabbed Tae’s backpack, at his foot, but did not want to turn and retrieve his own possessions, in fear of creating too much movement. “Two,” a huge hornet, black and menacing, flew from Tae’s shoulder toward Sawyer’s face. “GO, GO, GO!”

  Tae had never removed clothing as fast, even during a teenage rendezvous. The shirt flew into the air, along with dozens of buzzing, angry, vicious hornets.

  Sawyer reached the door first, he flung it open and propelled himself through. Tae was next, bare-chested and cursing. He slammed the door behind him.

  The men pushed themselves back against the wall, flashlights whirling, trying to pinpoint any pursuing insects. Nothing. Only dust motes danced in the air.

  Sawyer gasped, “Jesus Fucking Christ!”

  “How the hell – how the hell did that just fucking happen?”

  “Didja get stung, dude? Anywhere? You OK?”

  Tae quickly checked his exposed flesh. The wiry muscles of his chest and shoulders were crowned in goose pimples, but he could not find, or feel, any wounds. “No, man. No, they didn’t get me, but how the hell did that just happen?”

  “I dunno. I dunno.” Sawyer sat down on a parlor chair, his knees weak, rising a cloud of dust from the green velvet cushions. Tae retrieved his backpack and donned a gray University of Georgia sweatshirt. The foyer suddenly felt bitterly cold. After a moment, the big carpenter sighed, “I guess there’s a nest in there we just didn’t see.”

  “A nest?” Tae answered, “There was no fucking nest in there and it’s too damn cold for hornets to be out. No man, this isn’t fucking natural.”

  Sawyer shrugged his big shoulders, defeated. “Let’s get back to the truck. We can check the house out in the morning, I guess.”

  As they approached the big double doors something, some unseen but inferred movement caused Tae to check the sidelite, the narrow window on either side of the door. Sawyer’s hand was on the handle, but he paused.

  Tae pulled back the white lace curtain and looked out onto the porch and front yard.

  A huge black dog sat still and silent atop the porch stairs. Behind it, between the house and the truck, a pack of shadowy hounds roamed the neglected lawn.

  “Dude,” breathed Tae, “come and look at this.”

  “Is that a fucking pit bull?”

  “I dunno, but it don’t look friendly.” There was no possibility of escape to the truck. Sawyer’s handgun, a Glock 9mm, was holstered in the glove compartment. The big man itched to hold its cold, black grip.

  “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Lock that door,” whispered Tae, as if in fear of drawing the big dog’s attention. Nevertheless, a pair of yellow shining eyes met his through the glass. The dog made no threatening move, but behind him, the rest of the pack stopped, and as a group turned and stared. Tae dropped the curtains back over the window, his hand shaking. “I guess we’ll try the back?”

  The foyer opened onto the stairwell, a massive, gnarle
d oak balustrade supported by gilded finials shrouded in dust. The floor was black and white tile, checkered like a chessboard. To the left of the stairs, a passage led past two doors, one opened and the other closed, and a tiny powder room tucked beneath the stairwell. Sawyer felt a cold shiver clench his spine as they passed a yawning, black portal, only the first step visible leading down to the basement.

  The hall opened into the kitchen. The previous owner, before his disappearance, had recently renovated the space. An island containing a stovetop, sink, and microwave gleamed beneath new granite and dust. Beyond the kitchen was a breakfast room and a wall of windows overlooking the backyard.

  Tae made for the back door, but stopped, as Sawyer left his side. The big man reached for the refrigerator, a new and massive two door model paneled like the cherry wood cabinets.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me, man, really?”

  Sawyer shook his head. His plan was to find something to potentially distract the dogs outside, long enough to reach the truck. Haste, and the ball of fear in his throat, prevented him from speaking.

  The refrigerator opened into a wall of darkness that, curiously, moved and pulsated, as if something large and serpentine lay within.

  The large carpenter heard an odd rustling, like dry leather rubbing together before a blob of darkness fell at his feet. Before his startled eyes, in the light of his flashlight, the ball dissolved into a hundred thousand crawling, crackling, scurrying cockroaches. Sawyer stumbled backward, his butt hitting the edge of the island, as the wave of roaches spread across the floor and cabinets.

  As his boss cursed and scrambled to escape the tide of black insects, Tae reached out and gripped the doorknob. He hissed like a wounded cat and withdrew his hand, blood was beading from every fingertip. Something sharp had penetrated his flesh. Now, as he watched, only inches away, frost began to form against the glass. The door was a block of ice and Tae could feel the air before his face deepen into a numbing arctic chill. The door’s glass panes were completely frosted and, as he cast his light upon it, the rime spread like a breath, from the door to the windows.

  Sawyer stumbled into his friend. Tae grabbed a handful of the bigger man’s jacket and pulled him to the side, through a doorway and into a dark dining room. Immediately, Sawyer slammed the door closed. He appropriated the cloth from the dining table and shoved it below the door, filling the crack. A cloud of dust, debris, and old cobwebs exploded in his face.

  “This is not fucking natural,” Tae whispered, repeating it like a mantra. “This is not fucking natural.”

  Sawyer brushed a roach from his pants leg. “Tell me ‘bout it, man.”

  “Oh man, this fucking house is fucked. It’s cursed. It’s a fucking haunted house.”

  Sawyer trained his flashlight onto the floor, as if expecting the roaches from the kitchen to sweep below the door, like an assault on the beach at D-Day. “Yeah, well, it sure the hell looks that way.”

  Tae turned and examined the room. A large table, now empty but for a dislodged pair of candlesticks and vase, was surrounded by chairs. Two buffet tables filled with dirty dishware flanked the dining room and a chandelier mottled with cobwebs like a caterpillar nest hung from the high ceiling. The far wall opened into another dark room – a library judging from the shelves of books lining each wall.

  “The Time is come for Thee to reap.”

  The voice, deep and growling, as sinister as an open grave and deep as a leviathan may swim, spoke from the empty air directly between the two men. It was as loud and present as if someone stood with them and recited from a book.

  Sawyer fell back, crashing against a dining char, his feet tangled by an old rug. Tae jumped sideways, flinging himself away from the voice’s origin. He ran into the library, followed closely by his boss. Both men were cursing in high, shaking voices, completely unmanned by the unseen presence.

  There were two doors identifiable in the beams of their flashlights, one leading back into the hornet infested parlor they had recently fled, and another revealing a small washroom.

  Sawyer and Tae pressed their backs against a shelf, full of darkly bound books, and thrust their flashlights forward, as if the bright beams were weapons.

  Sawyer grasped his buddy’s shoulder with a shaking fist. The big man’s eyes were wide and white above his bristling beard. “This is bullshit, this is too much – we’re not right for this shit.”

  “Yeah, boss, well you tell me who is.”

  The answer was like a tremulous whisper, spoken into his ear but heard only by his thoughts. The name that came into this mind was a golden arrow shining in the dark. “Truman,” gasped the big man. “Truman.”

  “What? Truman? You mean that teacher friend of yours?”

  “Fuck yeah.” Sawyer reached into his chino’s pocket, fishing for his cellphone. He punched the home button before he remembered the lack of a cellular signal they had encountered during their approach. Impossibly, incredibly, perversely, Sawyer noted the five full circles on the upper left of his phone’s screen. A half hour ago the device had declared a complete and total lack of signal, but now, they were bathed in reception.

  Sawyer had met Truman Cadmusson three years ago when CRS was hired to put a new roof on his Gainesville, Georgia home. Truman was a scholar, an intellect, a savant, and an academic, but he and the big, bearish contractor respected and liked each other immediately. Sawyer was by no means an unintelligent brute, for all his sasquatch-like appearance. While Truman poured his time and attention into literary research, Sawyer spent his crafting and creating with his hands. The two men recognized the dedication to their separate crafts and respected one another for it.

  Truman was reclusive. He taught English Literature at the University of North Georgia, but confined his contact with the outside world to his lectures. He did not date, was a dedicated bachelor, and rarely spent time with friends. He was passionate about his work, good food, and college football. Sawyer shared each of those hobbies – which cemented their unlikely friendship.

  The house was still and silent.

  The phone rang through to voicemail on the first attempt, but Sawyer immediately hung-up and redialed.

  “Hello.” Truman’s voice did not denote interrupted sleep, the introvert was more likely reading or studying – even at this late hour.

  “Man, do I need your help.”

  “What’s going on, Sawyer? What’s wrong?”

  Sawyer paused, unable, for a moment, to encapsulate the enormity and weirdness of his experience. “How soon can you come down to Devlin, Georgia?”

  Silence for a moment as Truman judged the sincerity in his friend’s voice. “Devlin? What, are you working down there? What in the hell would you need me for? You know I’m hopeless with a hammer.”

  “There is some serious stuff happening down here, Truman, stuff that only you can help me with.”

  “Sawyer, you are sounding decidedly odd tonight. Are you drunk? High? Playing some kind of joke?”

  The big carpenter looked at his employee’s face, shadowed and harshly lit, wide-eyed with terror. “No jokes, boss man, I need you down here ASAP.”

  “You’re seriously asking me to drive several hours in the middle of the night to someplace I’ve never been, for what? What?”

  “Look, Truman, there has been some strange things happening, shit that we just can’t deal with without your help. Its like, fuck, I don’t know, just some serious fucking shit!”

  Truman had never heard his buddy’s voice so upset and strained. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “I can’t buddy. I don’t even know if I’m in my right mind anymore. I’m asking you for a big favor, I know, but I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t need it – real bad.”

  “Sawyer, I got some serious papers to grade, plus a staff meeting tomorrow afternoon. I can’t just shove all that off the table.”

  “You know all about black magic and ghosts and demons and shit, right?”

  “Ghost and demons a
nd shit? You mean the occult?”

  “Exactly. That’s what I need you for.”

  Truman paused again, deciding if his friend was unbalanced or joking, or both. “Are you saying you’ve had some kind of experience down there, something to do with the occult?”

  “Oh yeah, buddy, you could say that. An experience, yeah, a few experiences. Fuck yes.”

  “Look, Sawyer,” Truman’s voice, usually a faintly sarcastic baritone, suddenly became even deeper, slower, and pensive, “I don’t know what’s happened to you down there, but I doubt, highly, that it has anything to do with the occult. The occult is just literature, just stories. Hell, you know I’m an Atheist – I don’t believe in that bullshit and I didn’t think you did either.”

  “Fuck that, Truman, fuck that. Some serious bullshit has happened to Tae and me tonight, and it’s not orbs or that reality show crap, it’s some fucking creepy shit.” Briefly, Sawyer described the night’s events from their entry into the house to their flight into the library.

  Truman interrupted the narration twice: first, when Sawyer described the spectral voice, and secondly when Sawyer began to describe the library in which they stood. “You’re sure that’s what you heard: The time is come for thee to reap, you’re sure that’s what it said?”

  “Yes Sir, that’s what we heard. What does it mean?”

  “Its from the Bible, the Book of Revelation:

  And another angel came out of the temple,

  Crying with a loud voice to him that sat on the cloud,

  Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap;

  For the harvest of the earth is ripe.”

  “Well, fuck me,” Whispered Sawyer.

  “That’s some heavy shit, my friend, some heavy shit indeed.” When Sawyer described the library, Truman interrupted again: “Those books on the shelves, can you read to me some titles?”

  Sawyer shined his flashlight on the spines of the books. The library was different from any collection he had ever seen. Instead of paperbacks and dust jackets, he saw leather bound tomes with gilt binding and calligraphic text. “Uh, well, most of them don’t look like English.”