“You have until Friday, no extensions.”
The
final syllables of Ben’s flat, emotionless voice lingered after the harsh click
as I slipped the phone into my jacket pocket, checked my empty wallet and
gathered what was left of my senses, all the while cursing under my breath.
“Kill
my landlord…”
The city sank its
omnipresent roar into my ears as I stepped out onto the porch, the smoky air
merging seamlessly with the slate grey clouds.
The marble white façade of the gentrified apartment building across the
street contrasted starkly with the Barrio’s rundown tenements. Ancient structures the developers were intent
on bulldozing into oblivion along with their residents.
As I walked down the
cracked front steps, eyes scanning the distant skyscrapers of downtown, I could
sense a clock ticking in some office high above. It would not be long before I joined the
growing list of outcasts, driven from my ramshackle apartment with nowhere left
to go…nowhere apart from the burnt-out husk of a former life that I had no
intention of returning to. But I had no
choice anymore.
I would need his services
one last time.
Walking with my head down,
I dodged past the dog-walkers, derelicts, and churchgoers until I made it to
the painfully familiar spot. The tiny
park by the river, adjacent to the shuttered Old Bodega, was all but deserted
this early in the morning. There was no
one in view as I entered the small grove of pine trees by the waters edge;
blocking the church steeple with their natural spires of dark green and brown.
I took a deep breath as I
fumbled with the tarot cards; laying the aces at the four corners and the death
card at the center. The soft ground
smelt of pine needles and the sweetness of decay as I silently rehearsed the
incantation that I had promised myself never to use again.
Breathing in deeply, I
spoke the words that Ingram had taught me in my rebellious youth. Arcane phrases that hailed from lost lands,
ruined cities, and fallen stars. They
possessed no name that could be safely spoken by human throats. The Witch of Endor had spoken them whilst
summoning the shade of the prophet Samuel.
The Sibyls had invoked them when those eldritch priestesses desired to
see that which was not meant for mortal eyes.
Their lingering echo spanned a thousand centuries and dimensions beyond
counting.
The chant began low and
animalistic, my voice joining with the droning buzz of insects over nocturnal
desert sands, before rising to the desperate wail of the mourning widow-lady,
arms aloft beside the blazing funeral pyre of an ancient Sumerian ziggurat. The pitch of her voice and mine plummeted as
Baal-Hammon reached his great hand from the void and caught her by the throat,
bringing forth a bestial howl from beyond that shook my body and threatened the
very fabric of my soul as aeons and dimensions collided.
But the underworld’s roar
soon ceased. The final verse hanging
spectral in the air, before being blown away on the chill breeze as the gates
of time slammed shut again.
I could taste Camilo’s
presence long before I could see him. The
bitter flavor of crematorium ash pressing down on my tongue as the ghost slowly
broke through the hole that I had pierced in the thinning veil between worlds.
The temperature of the
air switched from mid-autumn to the depths of winter, causing ice crystals to
form around the slowly materializing spectre in the shadow of the hissing pine
trees.
It was some time before
he appeared vaguely human.
“What is it now,
traitor?”
The cadence of his voice
was somewhere between metal on ice and sandpaper on old floorboards. Time had failed to dull the hatred, the dead
having all the time in the world to remember.
“I have a proposition,” I
said coolly, swallowing my primal fear, “One that may free you from the Realms
Between should you accept.”
“A proposition?”
I could feel the
invisible sneer on his blank face.
“You dare to proposition
me? I should have cut out that lying tongue when I had the chance…”
His angry hiss was
matched by his incorporeal “body” which began to bubble like steam, giving off
a frigid mist and stinging my cheeks with a thousand needles.
I let him rage for a
time. He could not hurt me from his
place within the circle. Nor would he
ever believe that a part of me could feel the anguish of his imprisoned
soul. He had every right to kill me.
I did not speak again
until his writhing form had settled, his wrath having left the pinecones ridged
with frost.
“You know that I have the
power to breach the darkness,” I said, keeping my voice firm, “The bars of your
prison are mine to command now that Ingram is dead. But in exchange you must take out your
frustrations on another…along with anyone associated with them.”
“Damn you! I am not your
errand boy, Domenic…”
“No, Camilo” I replied,
“You were my friend. This proposition is
my redemption and yours.”
“Friend?”
The phantom’s outline
twisted in mocking, gibbering laughter.
“What do you know of
friendship, betrayer? You were always nothing but a little monster doing the
dirty work for others; the master’s lapdog.
Of course, you would speak honeyed words of redemption, all the better to
obfuscate your crimes. I am done with
you. Your schemes are none of my
concern…”
“You’re wrong.”
I paced around the pulsating
edge of the circle and laid my hand upon the Ace of Coins.
“My schemes are your sole
salvation, oh guardian of the portal. You
are the last of your kind. Old Campo’s
spirit lingered in the Casa before it was demolished. He refused my generous offer, and now he is
beyond all reach. The Bodega is next on
their list. Your last anchor to the
mortal plane is set to fall on Friday morning and you will be consigned to oblivion
along with the Barrio if you fail to heed my call. Remember the promise that you made to Lita, you
will not see her again unless you fulfill your duty. You may hate me, but think of all that you
love before you refuse me. This is your
last chance.”
The ghost writhed amidst
the circle of tarots and an icy wind whipped the frosted pine needles, but I
could tell that he was finally seeing reason.
“Speak, bastard…” He said,
his despairing hiss merging with the sound of the trees.
I sighed. I did not relish what I was about to do, but
I concealed my doubts behind a mask that Ingram would have approved of. He had never shown any weakness before his
“chattel”, and blackmailing a lost soul with the memory of a mortal lover was but
another tool at the arcane master’s disposal, a method of control. Now I would use it to do the unspeakable.
“Benjamin Johnston is
your target. He is a property manager
for Melcore Ltd, the landlord that has chosen to sell the Barrio from beneath
the feet of its residents. The
demolition order sits upon his desk and it is he who will send you to the void
this Friday unless you do as I command.
I shall sing Morpheus’s Song once I have the necessary amplifier and
grant you release when the Dirge of Corruption is complete. Do you swear to destroy that which would
destroy you?”
There was silence in the little
grove. The breeze moaned through the
creaking branches and out over the muted waters beyond the frozen trunks to
mingle with the distant sound of traffic on the overpass. The threatening grey clouds pressed down on
the surrounding rooftops with all the potential of an impending avalanche.
“Very well, you murderer,”
the soft reply finally came, a whispered sigh of resignation, “Just know that I
will be waiting when you draw your last breath.
All the favor that our master showed to you will mean nothing in the
end.”
I stood alone under the
dark trees, my legs feeling like frozen sticks as sweat dripped into my eyes.
It took two full days to
get a meeting with Ben, his time was money and he was hesitant to spend it on
poor investments like myself. The look
on his pasty-white face was sour as I walked into his eighteenth-floor office
and his resemblance to spoiled milk only deepened as I outlined a lengthy list
of grievances that were hardly mine alone.
“The Board has already
spoken,” he sniffed, betraying a stuffy nose, “You exhausted your appeals
months ago. Why are you wasting my time
like this?”
“Sir, given the season…”
“Oh please, you were
never a religious man, Dom. Money
doesn’t grow on trees and the company’s patience has its limits.”
“Then please Ben, at the
very least, give me a letter of recommendation.
Something I can show to my next landlord. Surely you wouldn’t let me stay in the gutter
this winter?”
He stared at me for a
split second before loudly blowing his nose and tossing the tissue in the
wastebasket beside the overflowing desk.
His lips remained hard, but I could see the condescending and very
Christian pity in his eyes as surely as the gilded crucifix hanging from the
wall behind his well-cushioned chair.
Pity for the dirty soon-to-be derelict before him, appearing twice his
age in a worn-out beige jacket that had long since faded to brown.
He shook his head and
managed a half-smile.
“OK, Dom,” he sniffed,
“You may be a stubborn ass but you always paid your rent on time, so I’ll do
you this one last favor. Come back
tomorrow and my secretary will have your letter. That’s all.
Now if you’ll excuse me.”
I naturally thanked him
profusely, pouring out more “bless yous” than a born-again Christian. But the busy property manager had already
re-focused on his computer screen under the watchful eye of his crucified
savior.
It was an easy matter to
fish the discarded tissue from the wastebasket on my way out, slipping it into
my pocket as I casually nodded to his pretty blond secretary and made for the
elevator.
I held in my
elation. Only after I had left the
bustling downtown streets behind and returned to the isolation of my attic room
in the Barrio did I allow myself a chuckle.
Fortune’s Wheel truly favored me that my charitable landlord had a
cold. While it was far inferior to
blood, mucus would serve as an adequate conduit for my purposes. And not even a saint’s crucifix could bar
powers far older than the first mortal cities.
I set to work at once.
Ben’s secretary received
no visit from me the next day, or the day after. I doubt she lost any sleep over it amidst the
endless scheduling conflicts and never-ending deluge of phone calls. A loyal
cog in the machine of a high-end real estate company, right up until the moment
when her boss stepped from his office with a loaded pistol in his hand.
I read about it in the Friday
paper. On what should have been the day
of my eviction.
Benjamin Johnston, rising
star of the Melcore team and devoted family man, had “snapped”: shot his
secretary, shot his boss, even murdered a contractor from Pierson Construction
in cold blood, before throwing himself from an eighteenth-story window. He had no known mental illnesses, no prior
criminal record, only a mild cold.
The sinkhole was briefly
mentioned on page fourteen. There had
been no deaths, but some of Pierson Construction’s most valuable equipment had
been inexplicably swallowed-up in hard-packed soil outside the Old Bodega hours
before its scheduled demolition. Any
construction or demolition work in the area had been postponed indefinitely,
the site having been deemed unsafe.
Satisfied, I set the newspaper
down and grabbed my coat.
There was a nip in the
air as I walked down the street, whistling tunelessly as I passed the derelicts
and dog walkers on the way to the small park.
Noting the smiling faces of the churchgoers that were quickly stifled as
the monsignor passed by.
When I arrived in the
grove of trees, I removed the tarot cards from my pocket along with the lighter
fluid. Soon the flames were rising as I
made the proper signs over the disintegrating symbols of death and judgement.
Only meters away, I could
feel the sinkhole outside the abandoned Bodega, the traces of hastily evacuated
machinery, and the slowly mending wound in the fabric of time.
I knew that I could never
be forgiven. Camilo had made that
clear. My only redemption was that he had
finally escaped into the Beyond, the last of Ingram’s “guardians” to find
release. His time of torment was at an
end, no longer bound to the “portals of power” within the Barrio that had once fueled
my mentor’s abilities and ambitions.
I sighed as the flames died
below my feet.
I had been the one to
betray him; luring my fellow apprentice to the basement of the Bodega before
speaking the words that stripped his soul from his body. The others had been Ingram’s work, and I had
done it all for him. Cammy’s subjugation
was to be my “proving”, my final test of arcane mastery. As if forcing someone into bondage proved
anything beyond one’s cruelty. And was
to prove my cruelty yet again by telling Lita that her loving fiancé had
willingly abandoned her. The blood of
her suicide was on my hands and remained so fifty years later.
My victory was
hollow. I had saved myself, I had saved
the neighborhood, or what was left of it, and I still had a roof over my head. But in the end, I was only an old
slave-master breaking the chains that should have been broken long ago. The good Catholics of the Barrio would never
acknowledge such a tainted savior.
A betrayer I
remained. My final act of treason having
fallen on the memory of my teacher, and the empire that he had striven to build
upon the backs of ensnared souls, including those of his own students who
failed to live up to his godly expectations.
With Camilo freed, the last rotten pillar of that empire had
crumbled. I had refused to follow in
Ingram’s footsteps, even as I had employed his methods to serve my own ends,
making amends in the only way that I knew how.
I left the grove of pines
and walked away down the street, avoiding the parishioners huddled by the
church door. “The Devil” card secured in the breast pocket of my thread-bare
jacket as the autumn cold stung my cheeks.
Regardless of my past, my
allegiance and sympathies now lay with those brave enough to defy the gods of
their world.
