pentagram with the salt, again being careful the lines were well discernable. When he was finished he stepped carefully outside the pentagram and placed the saucers around strategic points, pausing every so often to consult the book. He placed the candles in the saucers, lit them, then took the book and the herbs and ventured to the center of the pentagram. He consulted the book, flipping through the pages and squinting in the darkness at the text. Then, following the book as best he could, he reached into each baggie, pinched a piece of herb or powdered bone between thumb and forefinger, and threw it at the four corners of the pentagram. “As above, so below,” he said. “From the four points of the earth, through the elements of space and time, I beseech thee! Awaken and open the gates! Listen, for I bring you sacrifice. With my left hand I bring it to you in sacrifice.”
He paused, checked his watch and frowned. The book said the spell had to be started precisely at midnight and it was two minutes before. Did it really make a difference? At least he was getting a head start. Besides, he had to get the box with the rabbit he’d brought along.
Stepping out of the pentagram briefly, Gordon plucked the cardboard box off the ground and stepped back into the circle. Using the blade of the ceremonial dagger, he cut the tape that bound the box shut and carefully opened the lid. He reached inside and grasped the rabbit by the scruff of the neck and, with one quick motion, lifted it and drew the blade of the dagger across its throat as it bleated once and kicked its legs frantically. Blood sprayed out into the pentagram. Gordon continued the spell, reciting the words he’d memorized this afternoon. “I bring you sacrifice with my left hand. I bring you fresh blood as sacrifice. Oh Damballah! Oh Erzuile! Hear my prayer! Oh Azathoth, the blind piper of a thousand names! Oh Hanbi, Father of He Who is Our Dark Demon Father Pazuzu, I call on you to grant me this dark boon! I give you the blood of the living, which I have spilt on this hallowed ground so that the powers you bestow will make one who’s dead alive again!”
The rabbit continued to kick until it suddenly slowed, then stopped. Gordon’s right hand and wrist were drenched with the rabbit’s blood. When the rabbit was dead, Gordon set the animal down in the pentagram. He dipped the forefinger of his left hand in the wound, grimacing as he did so, then stood and flicked the blood from his fingers at the black candles, sprinkling blood on the dancing flames. “Azathoth, Hanbi, Baal, Pazuzu, Damballah! Erzuile! Abaddon!” He repeated these names as he sprinkled the blood, watching as the flames flickered as the blood spilled on them. Actually, according to the book, you were supposed to say something else but it was in some other language and Gordon couldn’t very well hold the book and do all this at the same time. When he was finished, he picked up the book and flipped through to the page in question. He tried pronouncing the words as best as he could. “Aya absath ngya, wahlee obsoth, ngya, yian…wow!” What the hell did that mean, anyway? “Azathoth! Mgwai! Damballah! Damballah!”
The flames of the candles rose and flickered. The wind picked up slightly, blowing leaves. Gordon shivered.
The crickets, which had been chirping and seemed almost like background music to Gordon, continued but there was a funny sound in their cadence. It was almost as if the rhythm of their chirping had been knocked off track just slightly and then resumed again. It was slight, and Gordon thought he was imagining it when it happened. He stopped the ritual, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
The chirping of the crickets continued. Gordon listened, his blood running cold.
Overhead, in a tree, an owl hooted.
Gordon started, heart racing, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh. This was just getting too damn creepy.
Gordon hurriedly finished the ritual, repeating the words and phrases from the book as best he could. He threw another sprinkling of the herbs and bone over the five corners of the pentagram, closing the ritual, and by the time he was finished he was feeling like a fool for letting it all get to him. And besides…what the hell was he doing? Did he really believe in the shit Count Gaines believed in? Did he really think this ritual was going to make the ground cursed? That if he buried something dead here the curse would bring it back to life?
Now that the ritual was over it was time to find out.
Gordon knelt down and dug a hole with his hands, cursing himself for not bringing a small shovel along. He dug into the moist soil, heaving clumps of dirt in a pile on his left side, and when he’d gone down a foot or so he picked up the dead rabbit and placed him inside. He shoved the dirt back over it with his hands, tamping it down flat. Then he stood up, blew out the candles, tossed everything in the burlap bag, then kicked at the salt-drawn pentagram, scattering it. As he worked he listened to the crickets, pretty sure now that he’d let his imagination get the best of him. The rhythm of their chirping was normal; it hadn’t changed at all. He’d just imagined the whole episode.
When he was finished he hurried through the woods to his car, forcing himself to take it slow and not trip over any vines or bushes.
Once in his car he threw the burlap bag on the front passenger seat, started the car, and drove away.
Naomi Gaines watched her son as they ate supper, wondering what was going on in his world.
The past few days had seen a remarkable change in Tim’s demeanor. No longer sulking, no longer shy and reserved, Tim seemed happy and talkative now. Ever since that day five years ago when Scott Bradfield and those other boys had done that horrible thing to him, Tim had been through hell. It didn’t help that so many people in the community, with the exception of school administrators and the local police, weren’t very supportive. Naomi had warned Jeff early on that if they moved back to her hometown they had to be prepared for the narrow-minded attitudes of the local population. Jeff hadn’t taken her seriously enough, though. His eyes were opened not just by what happened to their son, but when Tim was in seventh and eighth grade at Spring Valley Middle School.
“How’re things going, son?” Naomi asked casually.
“Great,” Tim said. He’d already wolfed down his steak. Jeff was wiping his mouth with a napkin, listening as Tim related how his day went. “George and I hung out here after school.”
“He seems like a neat guy,” Naomi said. She and Jeff had met George and Al when they came by the other Saturday to pick Tim up to go to the movies. While cautiously optimistic, they’d come away feeling good about meeting both boys. What little she knew about George, she figured he was too new to the area to be exposed to Tim’s history and the tainted reputation he had with the student body of Spring Valley High. Still, Tim wasn’t a total outcast at school. There was that computer whiz he hung out with and that girl, some art student. Chelsea. They were kids like Tim; kids who had been cast out of all the social cliques, who were forced to band together lest they be picked on and harassed by the social elite of the student body.
“Yeah, George is cool,” Tim continued. “He and Al are into the same books and movies as I am. It’s really neat to finally meet guys who aren’t like, all wigged out over science fiction and horror movies, you know?”
Naomi smiled. “I know, honey. Trust me, I kinda went through something similar when I was your age.”
“Yeah, you told me.” Tim was looking at her and Jeff. “And Matt and Chelsea are cool too. I like them, but they aren’t into the same kind of books and movies as I am nearly as much as George and Al.” He turned to Jeff. “So, Dad, how different was it to go to a big city school?”
Jeff shrugged. He’d grown up in Baltimore and living in Spring Valley was his first experience living in the country, in a small town. “Hard to say,” he said. “It’s been over twenty years since I’ve been in high school and we had our share of cliques back then, too.” He traded a glance with Naomi. “But even I can tell things are different here. I work right off Main Street, you know, and most of the people I work with live in town. I’m kinda like you in a way, Tim, only in a corporate environment. The people I work with all share the same background and interests and I…well, I don’t. You’ve probably heard me tell you and your mom that I’m the only person at my office that reads during their lunch break, right?”
Tim nodded, chuckling. Naomi couldn’t help but shake her head. Jeff had mentioned this before. While Jeff wasn’t an unabashed horror fan like their son, he read the occasional Stephen King, sometimes Peter Straub. One day Jeff had tried a Richard Laymon novel at Tim’s urging. Jeff had liked it, but commented on the remarks his coworkers had for his choice of reading material.
“I think it’s no secret that my closest friends, aside from you and your mom, are the ones I made in high school and college. I have a feeling George and Al are going to be very good friends for you, Tim. You share the same interests and, from the way it sounds, they respect you. I’m certain they’ve had to have heard some of the
