by J B Murray
Here he stops and stands. Turns off the flashlight and lets it drop to his side as he looks from the window out into the harbor. The same window he’d seen the patchwork man standing in not two nights before.
The city is beautiful.
Reynolds smiles, looking out across the water and up. The early morning is clear, with little to no cloud cover, and the stars have not yet gone to bed, as they linger up in the heavens. Pinholes in the sky. The city scape beyond dots with light. Not fully illuminated yet, but glowing dimly, with occasional flecks of bright whites, off whites, reds and greens and faded neons. Almost peaceful, he thinks.
Almost.
Below, a darting shadow catches his eye. His reverie broken, Reynolds steps closer to the window, placing a hand on the pane as his eyes sweep the wharf below. Nothing to the left. Nothing to the right. Had his mind been playing tricks on him? He leans in closer to the pane, looking down. Standing under the window, looking up at him, is a man of comparable size. Dressed in ragged clothes, the large man wears dark pants and a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood pulled back. Reynolds fixes on a series of stitched scars running over and across the man’s bald head and face. The two lock eyes and the patchwork man reaches behind his shoulders and slides his hood back into place before turning and starting down the wharf.
Like lightening Reynolds bolts from his perch on the second floor. His feet drum against the stairs leading to the first floor. There is a crash and flutter of police tape as he bursts through the front door. The door swings wild on its hinges, threatening to come apart. Just ahead of him, some ten yards off, the large man looms. The large silhouette fades into the shadows. At once, Reynolds is at a run, reaching into the back of his waistband to free his firearm.
For someone who is merely walking, the patchwork man takes huge strides, covering great distances, while Reynolds jogs to keep up. They cross the wharf, slithering through several one story out buildings. Each adorned with large whaling hooks, buoys and fish nets of all sizes. The big man leads Reynolds through the avenue of buildings until he comes to a right. Takes the seven or eight steps leading down to the docks two to three at a time. Reynolds gains a little ground as the patchwork man slows, his course taking him to the end of the long, narrow dock.
Reynolds keeps his firearm pointed at the ground as he takes the steps down, thumbing the safety off, and sliding his finger just outside the trigger guard, poised and ready. He’s walled in on either side, each containing rows of boats tethered to their moorings. The moonlight is trading places with the rising sun, casting an eerie haze over the wharf. Still in shadows, but very clear is the large man.
The one wanted by the authorities for the murders of ten young girls.
A criminal that escaped nights prior during Reynold’s and Dori’s investigation.
The one whose eyes pleaded their innocence with Reynolds that same evening, looking down on him from the second-story window of the warehouse.
The patchwork man.
“There’s no where to run,” Reynolds explains, raising his firearm to chest level.
“I not run.” Reynolds stops dead in his tracks. Something about the voice. Deep and echoing. Gravelly. And somewhat child-like.
“Stay where you are.”
“I not run.”
“Stay where you are,” as Reynolds takes a few steps closer, leveling his firearm at the chest of the large man.
“I say, I not run,” the patchwork man says again, reaching up and pulling the hood from his head. “But I also not go. I come help.”
“Help? Help? I’m afraid you’ve done enough my friend.”
“Friend?” The large man tilts his head to one side, as if he’s never heard the word before.
“You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”
“No. Not done. Not I. You… friend?” He questions, taking a step closer to Reynolds.
“Stay where you are. You’ve got some questions to answer.”
“Questions. Yes. Many questions. Many years make-“
“Why did you do it? Why did you kill those girls?” Reynolds bolsters, shocked to see the answer the big man’s eyes reveal. Those eyes bulge, lids growing wide and confused. Suddenly sad, before they close to a near squint.
“Not kill. Not I. Am saving.” The patchwork man stares at Reynolds, his gaze unwavering. “You not friend,” he speaks plainly. Disappointed. His shoulders slump forward, and Reynolds thinks the big man might drop to his knees. But he turns so swift, Reynolds barely has time to register it.
How can something so large move with such ease and agility?
And then, he’s gone! The patchwork man heaves himself from the dock and into the ocean waters. Reynolds doesn’t even have time to yell “no!”. Dropping his firearm at his side, he runs to the end of the dock; looks over the edge. The choppy waters lapping the pylons hide the impact the big man would have made with the water. Little ripples play over the water’s surface; echo under the docks. Minutes tick by as Reynolds peers into the water, this way and that, knowing he lost the patchwork man again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ENGLAND, 1919
ENGLAND, 1919
Darkness fell by the time Crowley completed his rituals, readying the items fabricated from iron meant to hold Jakob’s sister and the demon that resided within. Jakob stood across the room, watching the man, who seemed to know well, just what he was doing.
Crowley disappeared for some time, leaving Jakob sitting there on the basement stairs. In that time, Jakob’s mind wandered far and wide. He wondered if his sister could be saved? Wondered further what manner of beast had hold of her? And where that beast came from?
How?
Why?
It seemed absurd that something from beyond the frame of this reality, as Crowley put it, would want anything to do with an average, eleven-year-old girl. Why possess something so harmless? Lillian bore no ill-will toward anyone, or anything. A well-mannered child, always happy, always smiling; she was just a sprite of a thing. And so gentle. But then maybe, there lie the key? To corrupt a thing of beauty. Would that act alone sate one’s craving from beyond the grave? The destruction of a little girl’s life might be enough for something so vile. And then of course, she wasn’t really harmless any longer, was she? She had shoved Jakob across the room, lifted Crowley, tossing them both as if they were mere feathers. Light as air. And her movements. How they had changed. So lithe. Almost serpent like. Twitchy and violent as if skipping through time.
He questioned whether pursuing Crowley was the most beneficial mode of operandi. He knew there to be nobody else who would even remotely understand what transpired with his sister. But that didn’t make it any better. Crowley spoke of methods that seemed at times, violent. He worried the two men might even kill his sister in apprehension if not during the Abremelin Operation itself. But then, would that really be so bad? The girl slunk toward the afterlife. That, you could see on her face. In her eyes. A translucency seemed to invade her flesh. The blue tinge of her veins and arteries, glowing through the skin, snaking throughout her body like cobwebs. She was withering away with that thing inside her. So yes, maybe they would be the end of her in this quest. But they needed to try. And Crowley seemed hell-bent on success.
When Crowley returned, he came ambling down the stairs with a long, thin, black candle lit within a golden chamber-stick in one hand. In his other, a large chalice, almost a bowl set upon a stem of copper, was filled with water. Aleister’s complexion appeared a little rose, even in the candlelight. He looked bathed and well groomed. His bare feet padded down the stairs, as he trod past Jakob, who stood once the man appeared. A silky, crimson and black robe cinched around the man’s girth, open at the chest revealing an amulet of sorts, tied about his neck. Jakob didn’t get the best glance at the amulet. And understood its meaning even less. Though he thought it appeared a round medallion, with a crudely carved hexagram, and a ruby set within its center.
Crowley passed by without a word, and placed t
he chamber-stick and chalice upon the bench next to the iron manacles. Next he rinsed his hands in the water, before taking the first object up, and beginning the ritual.
The ritual lasted for what seemed hours. Crowley rinsed his hands over and again, dribbling some water on which ever device he worked with, and occasionally, spilling drops of wax on the items from the black candle. All the while the man would hum and groan. The tones were incessant save for the intermittent incantation, which Jakob could neither understand nor hear clearly. Jakob dare not interrupt the man; stood statuesque by the stairs. It seemed the wise thing to do, as Crowley never requested his help. So, he stayed out of the man’s way.
A great deal of time passed before Crowley, sweating profusely, his robe soaked through, sighed, bowed his head, and leaned in against the bench stabilizing himself with his two hands. His head came up a moment, as he whispered one final, inaudible word and blew out the black candle.
“We have concluded.” Crowley stated.
“That was… well…”
“Tiring my boy. And I must sleep.”
“Sleep? But-“
“Yes. Sleep. And you’d best get some as well.”
“But what about my sister?”
Crowley pulled himself upright and turned to face Jakob. He ran a hand over his bald scalp, and perspiration cascaded down the sides of the man’s head and down the back of his neck. Jakob couldn’t believe his eyes. Crowley looked a ghost. He’d grown pale, which was quite a feat for a man already on the light side of pigmentation. His eyes sunk in their sockets. Blackened all around. He looked hollowed out.
“Your sister can wait,” Crowley answered in a near whisper.
“How can you say that? You saw her condition earlier!”
“I did. And my conclusion is that we should wait.”
“I don’t understand? I thought you insisted that time was of the essence. That her very life was in grave danger!”
“Her life is in grave danger my boy! The clock is ticking. But a handful of hours will not make much difference in this matter. Especially if the two of us are too exhausted to achieve our ultimate goal. And so, your sister can most certainly wait! And it’s best she does. Our next task will be much better appropriated at first light. It is more likely, as the sun comes up, that the demon will sleep within.”
“But-“
“No more questions. We cannot subdue her if we are this tired. Come. I have a place you can slumber.”
“I don’t believe I can.”
“You will my boy. You will. The day has been trying. Your week has been doubly long. You will sleep. I am sure of it! Now come,” Crowley stated as he moved past Jakob and up the first few stairs. “Let us retire and wake with new vigor! We will need all our strength.”
2
2.
Jakob had slept, surprisingly enough. After some time of letting his mind wander and his thoughts run rampant with worry, his eyelids fell shut, while his breathing evened out, and his pulse slowed. The room he lay in had a certain character to it though. Something which made it easy to let go. The windows, draped in the blackest of cloth, blotted out any instance of the moon or light. His surroundings enveloped in the darkest of dark. The room, seasonably cool, but comfortable. The bed, even for a spare room, more lush and welcoming than any he’d ever slept in. But there was something else. A sound. A hum that seemed to emanate throughout the building. It vibrated in the walls, the floor, through the bedposts and mattress. Soft and soothing it propelled him toward sleep; calmed his nerves. That, and the slight scents of jasmine and oak, as if they wafted through the room in smoky wisps. In fact, soon, Jakob found it hard to stay awake. Not that that was a bad thing. He knew he needed the rest. But what kind of hold the room had on him couldn’t be ascertained. Could it be a spell Crowley cast about the house? Some form of magic bleeding through, meant to serve such a purpose? It made him even more confident in Crowley, and the man’s abilities concerning the supernatural.
In the morning, there was no light knock at the door to stir him from slumber. Just a sudden, loud bang. Followed by a second. Jakob sat bolt upright, the covers falling from his chest as the sleep faded from his eyes. When he looked up and to the left, Crowley stood there, dressed, pulling a large tome of some sort from the bureau next to the bed. Had the book been there last night? Jakob searched his mind, wondering if he could remember it. He couldn’t.
“Let us go,” Crowley stated, tucking the book under one arm. “The sun is coming up. And we’d best make our way over to your sister before losing too much of the morning.”
Jakob dragged himself from bed, taking only a moment to stretch the kinks from his lower back, before pulling on some outer garments and setting down the hall. He found Crowley in the kitchen, seated at a small table. The tome rested by one elbow, and Crowley payed no mind when Jakob took a minute to let his eyes wander over it. A bowl of oatmeal, no longer steaming sat at an empty chair, alongside a small plate of cut fruit. Dark, creamy coffee sat in a large white mug.
“Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
“Thank you,” Jakob said, pulling the chair out.
“You can thank me later. Eat swift my boy! I am hoping to catch your sister while she sleeps.” His head was down, a spoon digging up the last few remnants of the oatmeal before him.
“Will she?”
“What was that?” Crowley questioned, head popping up, as if his mind had been elsewhere.
“Will she be asleep? It seems she has slept little since… well since-“
“I expect she will be slumbering. As will the thing inside. These demons are not fond of morning much. They may torture and play with a soul at great length, while the body of the unwitting host rots away, but even they need to rest. And it is in the first hours of the morning they most likely do so.”
“I see.”
“Now do you?” The question was as sharp as any knife, almost condescending. “I think not. But you soon will! Do not take what it is we must do next lightly at all. For if so, I cannot guarantee any of our safety. Your mind must be sharp! Faith strong! And your constitution stronger still!”
“I am ready Aleister.”
“Ha! Well, we will soon find out. Won’t we? Now eat!” Jakob dug his spoon into the bowl and took his first bite.
“What’s in the book?”
“Excuse me?” Crowley questioned, again being pulled from wherever his mind set off to.
“The book?” Jakob nodded toward it. “You took it from the dresser. Though I don’t remember it being there when I went to bed last night.”
“People see what they will.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning your mind is else where. I set the book there long before you made for bed.”
“And does it have a purpose?”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I… well-” Jakob thought on the question. He had slept well. In fact, he felt well rested this morning. As if he’d slept a full night, not just a couple of hours. “I did,” he finally answered.
“Then yes, it has a purpose,” Crowley stated before standing from his chair and clearing the empty bowl from the table. He made his way past Jakob and out of the kitchen, adding nothing more to the conversation.
Jakob finished breakfast, shoveling it in and washing it down with lukewarm coffee. He was not all that fond of the drink to begin with. But with his heart racing, and mind reeling, the coffee was about as good as anything he’d tasted in some time. It seemed to launch his weary soul into action. Hardened him in a way. He felt ready to take on the day, no matter what it might hold.
Crowley led Jakob out of the house, only pausing to grab a satchel that lay by the front door. Then the two climbed into Crowley’s carriage. The same man as the night before sat atop the box seat, his feet propped up on the footrest, looking almost bored. He payed neither man any mind as the two secured the door behind them and took their seats. Crowley set the satchel between the two, then tapped his cane
on the carriage roof. A snap of the reigns soon followed, and Crowley and Jakob were off.
“Now listen Jakob. You must do as I say.”
“I’m listening.”
“Good. It’s all very well you love your sister, as I can only postulate you must. But for the safety of us all, you must forget that you do!”
“Forget?”
“Yes Jakob! Forget! You must no longer look at her as a sister. She may still look like that sister of yours, but she is now far from it. And what we must do won’t be pleasant. Especially if the demon wakes up.”
“But what if-”
“You must not question this! Nor your feelings. You must consider her already gone. All that thing inside her needs is one fraction of a moment, and all will be lost.”
Jakob bent his head, folding at the waist a little, trying to breathe. The necessary and violent means of what might transpire hit home. The tutoring in the manacles which Crowley had thrust upon him the day before came crashing back. He thought of the struggle with the door that first time. His poor mother, crumpled in defeat on the hall floor. Being flung about the room, and the forces which seemed to live there. And the forces he may not have yet seen or experienced. He had considered none of this. Wasn’t sure what they would have to do next, but, how could he forget the love for his little sister? Who could do such a thing?