by J B Murray
“This I can not conclude. But my dear Jakob, I might be the only man willing to try.”
“How?”
“Well first,” Crowley began, nestling himself deeper into the carriage seat. “First, we must get supplies. I warn you that, what comes next will be most unpleasant.”
“How so?”
“We must, as advantageous as it sounds, bind your sister. We must rend her incapable of movement and speech. For her words are just as harmful as her strength. Maybe more so.” Crowley watched the young man go pale, and so, ushered on. “Once we’ve bound her, I intend to sneak her from your dwelling, hoping to avoid such trepidation an event might incur of your neighbors. From there, we head to Scotland.”
“Scotland?”
“Yes Jakob. I have recently acquired a home there. A home far from prying eyes. On the Loch Ness in fact. There, we will conduct our operations.”
“Yes, I recall Samuel mentioning something. What is this, operation, you speak of?”
“Ahhhh… one ancient and rarely rectified. The Abramelin Operation as it were.”
“Which is?”
“Well in truth… what we seek is the Goetia. This is an ancient practice that conjures demons. Mostly one of the seventy-two demons it is said, which King Solomon evoked and confined in bronze vessels, sealed by magic. These demons he obliged to work for him. However, most of these demons no longer remain within their vessels. They are some of the most powerful demons ever to exist. I wager it is one of these which holds your sister captive. For it would take one of immense strength and fortitude to tear through and into this reality.”
“And these are the dangers that Samuel spoke of?”
“No my boy. In actuality, the evoking of such demons is easier than one would estimate.”
“Seriously?”
“The real danger lies within the Abramelin Operation. Before one can evoke any demon, he needs protection. And unfortunately, the ritual is elaborate, and requires much sacrifice of both body and mind. See, one cannot simply start conjuring demons with little consequence. The Abramelin Operation is evoked to obtain the knowledge, conversation, and protection of one’s guardian angel. Without such protection, why, a demon could overtake the individual casting the spells! But the process itself takes six months at minimum to begin working.”
“Six months?”
“Six months.”
“But will she even live that long?”
“There is no guarantee.” Crowley noted the hesitation on Jakob’s countenance. He sensed the young man considering a change of heart. Though he can’t blame him. Six months is a long time, with no guarantee. “But be rest assured of this Jakob. If you resolve to withdraw from this adventure, your sister will surely die much, much sooner.”
3
3.
Jakob watched from within the hall as Crowley dug through an old, wooden chest in one of the rooms of his home. They’d arrived not moments before, and Jakob had to scurry to keep up with the older man. He jumped from the carriage and proceeded into the dwelling with purpose. Leaving the door open behind him, Jakob followed, finding himself in Crowley’s house. The home itself was elaborate. If not a bit dark. Three feet into the hallway was all it took to realize Crowley maintained an appetite for the occult.
Though his walls were adorned with few painted depictions, much unlike Samuel’s home, the length of every wall hosted either a side table or small bookshelf. Though books were few, the shelves themselves were crammed with statues and sculptures galore. Most either carved from wood, tarnished with age, or sculpted from some black substance Jakob couldn’t identify. Crowley saw the young man perusing his collection, but said nothing. And so, Jakob followed him through the long hall, to the back stairs, which led down into the basement.
The stairs creaked beneath both men’s weight, though unlike most basements of the time, there wasn’t a speck of dust. When the room lighted, Jakob was amazed at how neat and organized everything appeared. The surfaces were polished, cleaned to a shine. Even the floor, not dirt or poured concrete, but rather, fitted with large wooden boards retained a glint in the light.
Directly across the room sat a work bench of sorts. The top was made of a highly polished marble, with a bookshelf fastened to its backside. Books crammed every corner of the structure, bound paper notebooks, and loose leaf parchment, bundled with rope ties. To the left, a large desk. Atop it were several manuscripts, a fountain pen and well, and three or four candles, well used, there wax having pooled in the copper dishes they rested in. A large heap to the right sat covered with a large, black tapestry over it.
Crowley made haste crossing the room, resting his cane against the work bench. He turned right, to the corner where there sat several large trunks stacked atop each other beneath sheets of black fabric. These he pulled off, folded neatly and set on the work bench nearby. He took down the first trunk, setting it aside, and opened the one beneath. He rustled around a bit. Jakob tried to peer over his shoulder to glimpse what he was up to. Moments later he came away with an archaic looking set of manacles. Crowley nodded as he stood straight, holding them up for Jakob to see.
The manacles were made of thick, rusted iron. A single link held together each set. A longer, but thinner strand of chain links connected the two sets to each other. Laid out they created a sideways H. It didn’t take Jakob long to grasp their purpose. To shackle one’s legs to their wrists. Crowley made haste unfastening the two, so they were two separate apparatus. One, manacles. The other, shackles. Crowley then set these atop the work bench and went back into the trunk. Within seconds he removed another device. This one, also rusted, was much thinner, nearly paper thin in places. Jakob almost vomited, guessing the nature of its construction without ever having seen it work; imagining the piece of equipment fastened to his little sister.
The manacles were to bind her wrists and ankles. This other device, had a rounded crown of sorts. It would fit over a person’s head. A large, thin band ran its circumference, and would block it’s captive’s eyes. Another band set lower on the device held a large swatch of bound leather to it. Made to render the captive speechless. Jakob wondered if his little sister would even be able to breathe in it. The rest of the device cascaded down in flattened, thin iron, which would drape over either shoulder of its prisoner. The whole device would cinch at the chest and under the arms with leather straps, holding it snug in place.
“I can see your reservations my young friend. But do not panic. The device is, relatively, more comfortable than it first appears.”
“I doubt that very much,” Jakob stated.
“Your sister will be fine in it. However, I can assure you the venture in placing her within these confines will prove exhausting in the least. That is where the real danger lies. Not only to her, but you and I in kind.” Crowley walked over to his bench and set the head piece down next to the manacles. Over his shoulder he added, “The creature within will not go gently.”
“Then how do you propose we capture this… this… thing inside her?”
“With stealth. We will need a distraction. And we will need to make haste once we reveal our plan. Which is why you need to know how these contraptions operate. And you must be able to operate them with your eyes closed! So let’s waste not, any more time. Let me show you…”
CHAPTER TEN
BROOKWISE, NH
BROOKWISE, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Garrison shakes his head. Snaps himself from his reverie. No! No, that’s not right. He didn’t know how. Or why. But his brother is safe. Warm. Not in any direct danger at the moment. Somehow he knows this. Reassures himself in the idea though he has no proof. Maybe it’s the infantile hopes of a young boy, not wanting to believe a terrible fate, that of freezing to death, would take his brother from him. But he senses it’s more than that. His every fiber tells him that Brent is all right. Out there somewhere. Somewhere in the wood. But the kid is fine.
Thinking back through the years since the accident on the wo
od pile, and all they’d been through. The good times and the bad. And of course, the strange. He knows his brother is ok. He has to be.
Standing there, the woodpile at his back, Garrison glances off into the wood surrounding the property. The snow falls still, light flakes flickering to the ground. His eyes squint in the fading light, trying to break through the aggregating shadows.
Now, where the hell had Brent been staring the other day?
The crunch of gravel and snow pulls him from his gaze. He walks around the woodpile, peering to his right. A police cruiser is coming down the drive, jostling left to right, right to left as the tires wade in and out of the small indentations worn into the dirt. He watches his father walk toward the oncoming car. It stops, and two officers exit the vehicle. His father shakes both their hands. One a tall, lanky looking sort of man. The other, a staunch, short woman, her dark hair pulled up under her peaked cap. While the three of them converse, Garrison turns back to the wood.
He starts toward the tree line, taking one step at a time. Careful to keep an eye out for footprints and making sure he’s not stepping on any himself. A few feet out from the pile, he slows.
Was that an indentation in the snow ahead?
Followed by another?
The pace of Garrison’s heart hastens as his eyes pick out the faintest of trails. Shakes his head. Can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. But yes! Yes, they are there! He is certain. The slightest of impressions in the white. And they lead…
Why, they lead into the wood. He can see them now, ever so clearly. Whether the moon has brightened as the sun sets, casting unique shadows on the land, he’s not sure. But what the shadows reveal, is a definite path. A small pair of footsteps to follow. Without much thought his right leg moves forward, followed by his left as he starts toward the two spindly birch that mark the edge of the wood.
“Garrison!” His feet falter. His father’s voice booms a second time. “Garrison!”
“Yeah?” He returns.
“Where the heck are you?”
“Um… over here,” in a near whisper. He shakes his head. “Over here!” This time louder as he turns around in his tracks. “Behind the wood pile!”
“Well come here!” His father beckons. “The police want to ask you a few questions.”
“Right there!” He agrees.
But as he turns to go, he stops. Wonders if he’ll be able to find the tracks again when he comes back. Wondering still if he should just tell his father and the police. Of course he should!
“Please don’t,” a small, faint voice calls to him from out of the wood. Garrison snaps his head toward the sound. He stands and listens.
“Garrison!” His father beckons again.
“Don’t tell them Gary,” the soft wispy voice carries out of the wood. And at once, Garrison recognizes it.
“Brent?” He questions the air.
“Just come back later Gary. I’m fine. Really, I am.”
“Where are you?” Garrison asks aloud. He’s sure the voice is his little brother’s. Or rather, mostly his little brother. It’s that same, odd voice his brother spoke that night in this very spot. And that night at his window. The voice of not quite a child, not quite a man.
“You’ll find me Gary. There’s no need to worry. You can come back later when everyone is asleep. Just follow the trail.”
“Where are you?” Louder this time as Garrison grows impatient and nervous.
“Don’t worry Gar! I’ll stay right where I am. I can hardly see anyway. I’ll wait for you.”
“Brent? Brent!”
“Who are you shouting at?” His father’s questions from behind him, stirring him awake. Though he was far from sleeping.
“I uh… I thought I heard something. I thought it might be Brent.”
“Well come now. The police need to ask you a few things. No school tomorrow. You and me, and the police will search the wood a little later. At least, until it gets too dark. But we have to hurry now, so you can talk to them.”
“Ok dad.”
His father turns and starts back toward the house. Garrison follows, then pauses. He grabs a log from the wood pile and walks over to where he spotted the first small imprint in the snow. Pushes it down into the white.
That should do till later.
Easy enough to see and pick up the trail.
“I’ll be back Brent. I’ll be back.”
2
2.
The conversation with the police didn’t take as long as Garrison thought it might. They asked him the run-of-the-mill questions. When had he last seen his little brother? What had they discussed, if anything? What were the details of the two strange occurrences with Brent on the day by the woodpile, and the night in the boy’s room by the window? Had his brother said anything that might indicate where he would have gone?
And there was the other “standard” procedure, where they asked to speak to him alone. The questions that followed were not completely unexpected. Garrison watched enough tv to guess what they would be. The first officer, tall and lanky, let a more compassionate, if not serious affectation fall over his face. And then the questions came again. Was there any reason his brother may have run away? Was there anything going on in the house that may have upset him? Were his parents getting along? Did he feel safe in the house? And on… and on they went for what seemed an eternity. But it had only been maybe fifteen minutes.
Following the questions, and satisfied with the answers they receive, the stout female officer trudges back to the car. She climbs in the driver’s seat and picks up the radio. She talks at length for a few minutes, before rejoining her partner, who was now standing near his father in the kitchen Tom’s hand rests on Trish’s shoulder, attempting to squeeze assurance into her. She’s barely moved from the spot from which she made the original call to the police. Her head still hung low, closer to the counter top and though her eyes had dried some, they wore dark, red, puffy rings around them.
The female officer, Kaitlyn Piccone, nods to her partner when she comes back into the kitchen. Officer Hall breathes in a huge gulp of air, then lets it out in a quick burst.
“Right,” he says. “Well then, I guess we’d better get to it. There isn’t much daylight left,” looking in Tom’s direction.
“Honey, why don’t you go sit on the couch. Get a little more comfortable?” His father pleads with his wife. Trish looks up at him with those exhausted eyes. They spill every known emotion to man out into the room.
Anger.
Sorrow.
Hatred.
Love.
Worry.
Despair.
Garrison wonders if his father isn’t going to have to pick his mother up to move her. Her spirit seems planted where it is. And then she nods.
“Maybe you’re right,” she whispers.
“I know it’ll be hard,” his father adds. “But go lie down on the couch. Get a little rest. I’ve got these two nice officers that’ll help me look. Garrison too. We’ll stick together and do our best.”
“Yeah… yeah, ok.” His mother steps from the stool and idles into the living room.
Garrison’s father fishes a couple flashlights from his toolbox in the front room closet. He hands the larger of the two with a handle to his son before joining officers Piccone and Hall, who’ve already made their way through the house and out onto the front porch.
“So,” his father asks. “Any suggestions.”
Before the officer can reply, a set of headlights start up the drive toward the house. Garrisons breath catches in his chest when he realizes the make and model of the vehicle. Not sure if anyone notices his apprehension, he coughs to cover up his nervousness. Sure enough as it comes to a stop two adults step from the driver and passenger’s side. Annalise opens the back door and wastes no time sprinting the distance between her and Garrison. She flings her arms around his neck before he knows it. Pulls him close. Awkwardly, he returns the hug. As the two separate, her parents are j
ust approaching the bottom stairs.
“We heard the news. Got a call for volunteers tomorrow. Hope you don’t mind us barging in like this,” Annalise’s father speaks. “We thought you could use a hand.”
“Thank you,” Garrison’s father nods. “I appreciate it.”
“No need to thank us, Tom. I expect you’d be up the road if the same was happening to us.”
“We would,” Tom states. Turning to the officer, he continues. “You were saying?”
“I’d hate to separate you from your son. So, I’ll take the south side of your property and sweep the woods until we lose enough of the light to hinder things. I suggest you and Garrison here, head opposite me. Kate will take the car and head back onto the main road. She’ll creep along and use the search light in the event Brent’s made it to the road, or at least near the road somewhere. And um…” Officer Hall trails, looking at the newcomers.
“Sorry,” Tom interjects. “This is Beth and Mark. Their daughter Annalise.”
“Right. Well, maybe Annalise can join you two,” Hall says, sensing the attachment she has to Garrison and grinning a little at the boy’s discomfort. “Her folks can search in that direction over there?” He points.
“Sure thing,” Mark agrees.
“And if we don’t find him?” Beth steps up and asks.
“Well, the unfortunate thing is, we usually wouldn’t even conduct this much of a search in so little time. Not enough man-power. Recruiting spotters takes time. Not to mention, this kind of thing is typically just a kid running away to his friend’s house, or hiding out somewhere to blow off some steam.” Officer Hall tries not to react to the look drawn across Tom’s face at the moment. One of disbelief and denial. As if his son could pull such a stunt. He holds up a hand to calm the man. “That being said. It is the middle of winter. So we’re going to put some effort in this evening.”