Big cans? he guessed, but they were open-topped and felt thick. Pots?
Or—
Cauldrons!
Even in the trickling heat, Fanshawe felt a refreshing excitement. Here was the cove that Jacob Wraxall had written of but had never been found—The place he performed his rituals in. No wonder the authorities never found it—it’s been hidden all this time…
Next, his hand plowed through more and more webs, revealing rotten shelved books. There were dozens. In the corner, he swept off a hoary cast-iron wood stove with an exceedingly long exhaust pipe. The pipe led all the way down the center ceiling beam, then branched into the back of the chimney. Fanshawe studied the pipe’s trek with his light, thinking. Why not just put an exhaust pipe up through the roof above the stove? It would’ve been easier and cheaper. But maybe…
Had Wraxall deliberately gone to the extra trouble, to conceal the fact that there was a stove in the attic? No one would ask questions about chimney smoke…
He pulled out several decrepit books, some of which nearly fell apart in his hands. Close examination with his light revealed titles either too eroded to be deciphered or simply non-existent. But another book, larger than most, lay in a wooden traycase; he carefully set it on the dust-cloaked table, lifted the hinged lid, and made out: DAEMONOLATREIA, presumably the title, and presumably in gold leaf. He gasped to find the Latin text inside unflawed and the condition of the paper nearly mint. There was another gasp when he looked at the copyright page: Lyons, 1595.
Other books lacking traycases were severely worm-holed, some with pages that had turned soft and tenuous as cheesecloth, but the last one he pulled out…
Holy shit.
Fanshawe squinted in the tiny light-beam. This was no printed book; the coarse off-color pages revealed ghostly blurs of what had to be hand-written lines.
Wraxall’s writing?
Another diary. Each passage was prefixed by a date between 1670 and 1675—The last five years of Wraxall’s life, he recalled—and was followed by tight identical script.
29 Aprill 1670 - ‘Twas enraptur’d in Contemplation, and reckon’d ye Impression as if ye Prince of Air himself sat betwixt myself and ye Clutterham Girl, read one line. It smote me like a blow ye intellection that Master into mine Ear whisper’d thus: ‘Yea, never must thou scruple to render Expression of their Ilk, though thou sit with them at Service-Time. Instead, forbear such Trifles, for Trifles they are, and let come into thy head Blasphemies, not Altruisms, extreame Evillness, not Generosity; muse of Murther and Unwilling Consorte, not Charitie, for this sarve as Poyson to ye God of Sheep. In Hell, thou shalt be touch’d by ye Truth of Grand and Infernall Reward. A God of Sheep I am not, but a God of Promises Kept. Embosom faith, and I wilt shew thee.’ Aye! to my Mind then verily it was come to Understand’g! Forsooth, their God is such an One like ours, onlie Lighte, not Dark, only soft of Heart, not sturdy of Will. For such kindly Sheep, Lucifer hath naught. ‘Tis in thy Holy Darkness that we must needs to esteem ye Darker Visions and - shout out Praise! - our true Intendment! As ye porridge-faced Parson qouth Scripture, I mused upon ye Image of severing ye Clutterham Girl’s head from her Bodie whilst ravaging her of ye Loins.
Fanshawe’s wince couldn’t have been more intense; he didn’t know what to make of such scribbling. His penlight scanned down to another line, which he eventually decrypted. 2 Maye 1670 - To-day with ye Post deliverie arrived what I have so long desir’d: ye missive from ye most laudable Wilsonne in Wilsthorpe, grant’d license most pleas’d that he shou’dst receive me. When my trust’d Rood was at an end of smothering ye Poor- House Boye in ye Attick, I order’d him to assemble all necessarie Appurtenances for ye Long Journie across ye Great Sea.
This reference was recognizable to Fanshawe. Wilson, Wilsonne, he thought. Has to be the warlock Wraxall went to Europe to meet with—the man he bought the Gazing Ball from…
He flipped forward several leafs, and let the penlight beam fall on another entry. 25 December 1671 - With Spayd and Mattock myself and Rood, at a graven Hour, un-interr’d ye Bones of one Rose Mothersole, Grandam of a Witch of some Repute in Regions nere Castringham. These Bones we stole away downe the Verge, in Fish-Baskets so not to allarm ye Working-Men on their waye to ye Woode next morn. ‘Twas a heady Brew we boil’d said Bones into - yea, a most stout and pungent Draught of Witch-Water yet. ‘Shall I be grant’d Privilege of espying through a Looking-Glass, my lord?’ ask’d ye loyal Sarvant Rood, and I answer’d, ‘Thou shalt, but not this Daye and not with this Water. For ye next Glass I hath deemed it best to use ye thus unprepar’d Water from ye Bones of mine own Beautiful and Horrid Daughter, whom we shall un-entomb at the especial tyme, and split me if I lie.’ Which after Rood made Inquiry, shew’g extream fervor. ‘What, then, Master, is ye Thing we shall venture by this Witch- Water hither?’ No long Time expir’d when the virile Rood’s Answer was at Hand, for I engaged the Mothersole Water in the Affordment of a Channell with ye Dead and so call’d up ye Soul of a sartain Wretch’d Wizard and Chymist of skille once hail’d of Old Dunnich, one Harken Whateley, whom Wilsonne much impress’d was utmost Important, and, indeed, ye Wizard answer’d with Ghoulish Lighte hard by and a Stench to cause a Corpse to Gust, and grant’d what It was I most ask’d in mine Mind - yes! - the second of ye Two Secrets, just as was Wilsonne’s Pledge! I told Rood that our Time would soon be next to us - whereat Lucifer be prais’d!
The second of the Two Secrets? Fanshawe questioned. What’s the first? A chill that was somehow hot made him recoil; his head ached from the constant squint. I’m the first person to see this in over three hundred years, and the first to even set foot in this place since then… Without forethought, he felt obliged to tell Abbie and Mr. Baxter about the discovery—he was certain they’d be avid about it—but when he mulled the prospect over, an obvious frustration made him sigh. How would I explain coming up here in the first place? I’m technically trespassing. Booking the room doesn’t give me the right to rummage around in their attic. Would they even believe him if he told the truth, that he’d heard a sound like a footstep creaking on old wood? I wouldn’t believe it, so why should they? And what would Abbie think of such an explanation? She likes me, and I like her… She’d probably think I’m full of shit, a crackpot…
Fanshawe knew he’d have to give it more thought. The discovery of the secret room and its contents were distracting him; he was too excited to think with circumspect. This additional diary alone was quite a prize. He flipped through more leaves but found most pages blurred to illegibility. He put it away for now.
What else is up here? His heart thumped at the consideration. And…
What was it Baxter also said?
A pentagram on the floor. A pentagram drawn in blood.
Fanshawe held the penlight between his teeth now, as he went to his knees and began to crawl about. His hands ploughed away the drifts of dust, to disclose bare, very dry wooden planks that so many centuries had turned ashen gray. He swore at the pricks of several splinters, and sweat from his brow dripped to the floor, leaving dark spots, but when one such spot appeared two-toned…
He leaned down closer.
Yeah, there’s something…
A strip of something darker seemed to emerge from his efforts, a curved strip. Fanshawe turned frantic, sweeping the dust away in the direction of the marking’s layout; the action raised a gritty fog that made him cough. Christ, what if a guest in another room hears me? but the fear of that vanished when he realized he was uncovering a circle on the floor.
Unbelievable. They were right.
A few minutes’ time was all it took for Fanshawe to sufficiently clear the intended space. Marking the wood was a circle, six feet wide, and within the circle was a crude but obvious five-pointed star. Now, if he leaned any closer, his nose would touch the floor. It wasn’t paint that crafted the diagram, but some manner of stain.
The passage of so many years had dimmed the stain, of course, but Fanshawe knew it was blood.
Just like Baxter said.
Several other unidentifiable characters, geometric shapes, and letters had been drawn within the
