could he possibly find that would be of any help?
“What’s up there?” Harry called from below, the sound of his shoes scraping off the shelf on the wall below as he tried to climb up behind him echoing in the attic.
“He just finished a small portion of the attic,” Scott hollered, crawling closer to the entrance so that he wouldn’t have to shout. “There’s a whole little room up here.”
“What do you see?”
“A lawn chair in the center next to a small stack of books. The walls are plastered with old posters, rock bands and women, and so on. There’s carpet just lying on plywood, and enough dust to choke a mite.”
“What books are up there?”
Turning around, he held the candle towards the books, a line of wax falling from the light green candle onto the carpet. He worked through the stack, which was closest to him first. There was a book of witchcraft from the Time/ Life series, the stamp of possession from the high school library still on the inside cover. He tossed an old Metal Edge magazine from the stack into the corner of the room without even opening it. A copy of “The Chicks of Metal” brought a dry smile, but then ended up sliding across the carpet to greet the Metal edge. There was a copy of “Faust” and one of “Helter Skelter.”
“Standard alienated youth reading list,” Scott called over his shoulder. “All we’re missing is a copy of… wait, here we go. ‘Dante’s Inferno’.”
“Anything else?”
“There’s one more book over here,” he said, crawling towards it. “Judging from the way this one’s worn, it has got to be pretty old.”
Placing his thumb between the pages where it lay open, he closed it, turning it so that he could see the cover of the leather bound tome.
“What is it?’
“There’s no title on it. Its cover’s made of leather. There’s some sort of embossing here… wait a sec.” He held the book closer to his face, the candle right in front of it. “Appears to be a pentagram. Sound familiar?”
“No. Why don’t you grab it and bring it down here?”
“Just a minute. Let me open it up and see if there’s anything in it to make it worthwhile.”
Opening the book to where his thumb marked it, he lowered the flame to the page, squinting as he read the small print.
“Let thy first sacrifice be of thine own flesh,” he whispered as he read from the page. “Be it blood or bile, skin or nail, but surrender it willingly by thine own hand.”
There was a small patch in the center of the paragraph: a dried fingerprint matted in blood on the yellowed page. He placed his own forefinger on that print, smothering it beneath his larger print. He could feel the crusted fluid flaking off beneath his oily touch.
A whispering sound resonated from the darkened corner of the room.
Raising the candle, he attempted to peel back the darkness, staring into the heart of the shadow only to see the thin arch of the vent. It must have been the wind whistling through the tiny gap between the aluminum vent and the shingles on the roof. He turned his attention back to the book.
“Let thy second sacrifice be of flesh not thine own. Be it a rodent or a human, it matters not, so long as it is taken unwillingly.”
The whispering sound arose again, this time louder, sounding like more than one voice at a time all vying to be heard over the other.
But it had to be the vent… didn’t it?
“And lastly, with thy third sacrifice,” he whispered from the page. “Let it be thine own soul. Commit it to thy master and thy vessel shall forever walk in the shadow of thy lord. Commence thee to thy task and pave the way in blood for thy master, the physical manifestation in flesh of the bloodspawn: the antichrist. Eternal life shall be thy reward for wielding the saber of vengeance, and a seat at the high court of hell should you succeed in bringing the destiny of the child to fruition.”
His head jerked up as movement caught his eye. The thick shadows beneath the vent swirled like the tentacles of a squid, gaining life as they stretched their thin arms into the room, piercing the glow of the candle.
“Holy shit,” he uttered as the whispering grew so loud that it filled his head, the jumbled words seeming to originate from within his fear wrought mind, rather than from without.
Without a sound, the flame atop the wick of the candle dwindled to an orange ember, a thin tuft of smoke trailing from the dim pinpoint of light into the darkness. The coldness of the trilling tendrils pierced his dry skin, shredding through the flesh and muscle and into the bone beneath, throbbing painfully in the core of his being. They tugged at him, coaxing him towards the heart of the darkness from which they sprung, their voices chattering within his brain.
There was a loud thump as the drywall square that he had pushed off to the side onto the carpet slipped back into place, filling the square hole and shutting out the last of the tiny hint of light that shined up from the bedroom.
The tendrils were all around him now, ripping at him from all directions, the icy touch covering every inch of his exposed flesh as he scrambled frantically against the overwhelming urging of the tentacle towards the hatch. Growing louder and louder until they echoed within the confines of his skull, the voices dug sharply into his brain. Closing his eyes as tightly as he possibly could, he clapped his hands to his ears, scraping his way towards the only exit in the room on his elbows. His bared teeth showcased the savage pain the rippled across his flesh, tiny needles of icy fire stabbing repeatedly through his skin.
A scream died somewhere between his chest and his mouth, escaping as a mere whispered moan from between his clenched teeth. With a thud, his elbows landed hollowly on the thin square of drywall. There was knocking on the small door from below as Harry’s fists hammered against it, trying to force it back open.
Summoning all of the strength that he could muster, he fought through the blistering pain, rising to his feet atop the drywall hatch. All of the muscles in his legs cried out at once as they wobbled on his shaky ankles, wanting nothing more than to just succumb to the will of the darkness that sought to reel him into the darkened heart of the room. Breathing heavily, he brought forth all of his will, all of the strength he had suppressed within his frail human form, jumping straight up into the air.
His head slammed against the paneled rafters, as bright balls of light appeared from behind his sealed eyelids. A throbbing wave of pain rushed through his head, pounding several times as though from beneath the repeated downfall of a hammer, jostling all of the voices as they formed finally into one.
“Master,” they all whispered in unison as his feet hit the floor.
The drywall square shattered into a million tiny fragments beneath his weight. Clouds of the chalky inside layer filling the air around him like a magician’s smoke as he hurdled downwards through the air. His bent elbows slammed into the wooden square around the hole, purple and black bruises swelling from beneath his sweatshirt almost immediately upon impact. The back of his head slammed into the rim, tearing wide a fresh, red rimmed gouge beneath the matted hair on the back of his head, causing his feet to flop backwards.
He landed in a heap on his side, the impact from the blow knocking the wind from his suddenly collapsed lungs. Rolling from side to side, he fought to draw even a single breath, his wide eyes staring back into his head, exposing nothing but two large white orbs beneath his lids. Every inch of his flesh cried out in cold pain as he flopped like a fish out of water.
Harry’s hands were all over him, trying to steady him long enough to get a good look at him, to see if he was badly injured. He could hear his voice, sounding as though it were coming from a mile away, but none of the words penetrated the fearsome throbbing of his swelling brain beneath his skull. His frantic tongue lolled from his mouth as with one final, great effort he drew in an entire chest full of air, sending him into a coughing frenzy. Lines of saliva flew from his open mouth, dangling from his lips onto the blue carpet.
His rapidly pumping heart slowed to an almost functional level as he slowly rolled onto his side, curling into fetal position. He allowed the air to creep through his seemingly collapsed trachea into his flattened lungs, his chest rising and falling several times before he was finally able to shake the feeling that he might never breathe again. From the corner of his teary eye he could see the concerned look on Harry’s face as he sat helplessly back on his knees, waiting for him to come back around.
“What the hell happened up there?” Harry asked, leaning over so that he could make eye contact.
