Ash Return of the Beast

PROLOGUE – Part 3



Four Years Earlier…

August, 1997

Somewhere in a peaceful Seattle suburb

Pastor Pete had just completed a heinous, depraved activity.

Sweating and sated, he untied the straps that bound the naked, shivering eleven-year-old boy to the bed.

The chubby, fair-haired youth lay shaking uncontrollably.

The restraints had been needless. The preacher had made the situation quite clear from the beginning. He’d leaned in, a warm breath away from the boy’s rosy cheeks, and whispered:

“If you move, if you scream, if you make any sound whatsoever, I will most assuredly kill you and dispose of your body and no one will ever know what happened. You will simply cease to exist. Do you understand?”

The terrified youngster nodded.

The preacher’s soft lips grazed lightly against the boy’s ear as he continued:

“And when this is over you will tell no one because, if you do, I will find out and I will hunt you down and I will bring you back here and I will kill you. Do you understand that?”

Again the boy nodded. It was better to be raped and silently bear the burden of shame than to be dead.

Freed from the restraints and having somehow endured the endless minutes of terror, Rodney wanted to run but his eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttered uncontrollably, and he nearly collapsed onto the floor.

The preacher flung the straps aside and tossed the boy’s clothes onto the bed. “Well, Duckworth? What are you waiting for?” He seemed genuinely perplexed by the boy’s hesitation. His eyes narrowed and he bellowed with the same grandiose, commanding voice the boy had heard so many times thundering from the high pulpit on Sunday mornings, “Go now! And sin no more!” Then he added, almost parenthetically, “And use the back door on your way out, for Christ’s sake.”

The boy’s response to the command was instant. He grabbed his clothes and threw them on in a single, fluid motion. In the process, something slipped from the pocket of his jeans and rolled under the bed. He didn’t bother to see what it was. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He fled across the floor of the preacher’s bedroom, flew down the stairs to the living room and out the back door.

The preacher knelt down to see what had rolled under the bed. He retrieved it easily and stood up. In his hand he held one of the boy’s prized possessions, something that cost the boy two cereal box tops and 50 cents of his allowance. It was a black plastic coin about the size of a silver dollar embossed on one side with the Batman logo and the visage of that famed masked crusader on the reverse. It was the ninth and final coin in the set and Rodney had collected them all. The preacher stared blankly at it for a moment, then flipped it into the air. With a sweeping motion, like swatting at a fly, he caught it, gave it a final moment of consideration and then dropped it into the bottom drawer of his dresser. A memento of sorts. A keepsake. A trivial thing. The boy would never miss it.

That night Rodney discovered his precious Batman coin was gone and he knew who had it.

***

Sunday morning, as Pastor Pete preached on the sins of the flesh, young Rodney Duckworth glared at him from a back pew as he sat somberly, squeezed between the alcoholic breath of his useless father and the overbearing perfume of his self-righteous mother. The boy watched the preacher’s mouth moving but he heard nothing coming from it. The only sound he heard was that of his own inner voice struggling to formulate a vow of revenge. But his 11-year-old vocabulary had not yet acquired words strong enough, dark enough, to articulate the phrasing necessary to form a vow of such a deep and bitter hatred. Hard as he tried, only one word seemed to surface with any clarity. But it was enough. It was loaded, ready to explode:

‘Someday’.

For a brief moment he fantasized a scenario in which his hero, Batman, would swoop in and wreak havoc on the evil villain behind the pulpit. But the fantasy faded quickly. He knew full well there was no Batman. No, he would have to manage this revenge on his own. He didn’t know how but he knew he would. Someday. He relaxed with a long slow breath, folded his arms, bowed his head and drifted into a half sleep, waiting for the Someday that would surely come.

***

Four years later:

Chubby little Rodney Duckworth was now 15 years old and not so little. He was thrilled to learn of Pastor Pete’s heart attack and couldn’t have been more pleased that the bastard had moved out of the neighborhood. Nevertheless, he was still emotionally and psychologically scarred from the abuse he’d suffered at the Pastor’s pleasure, an experience he never shared with a living soul. He was also tired of being bullied by his schoolmates who constantly taunted him with names like ‘Rubber Ducky’, or worse yet, ‘Rodney-F*ckworth-Not-Worth-a-F*ck’. That was the year Rodney Duckworth had taken all he could take and he decided to do something about it. It was time for a change. If he couldn’t change the bullies, he would change himself, like Bruce Wayne transforming into Batman. He didn’t know what he would change himself into or how he was going to go about it but he was determined to make it happen.

***

Rodney only had one real friend in the entire world. His name was Jason Hall. Jason played rhythm guitar in the school orchestra and of course anybody who played anything in the school orchestra was automatically branded as a nerd or a geek––which, in Jason’s case, was actually a fitting description. Pimple-faced and skinny, Jason didn’t have much going for him but he did have three things that Rodney coveted: a huge collection of Batman comic books and two guitars.

Up in Jason’s bedroom, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, Rodney finished reading one of Jason’s vintage Batman comics, carefully slid it back into its protective plastic sleeve, and picked up one of Jason’s electric guitars. He strummed the strings with his thumb. The sound was tinny and barely audible without the amplifier. He looked at his friend. “Can you teach me how to play?”

Jason shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“Cool. What do I do?”

Jason took hold of Rodney’s left hand and helped him place his fingers in the correct positions on the neck of the instrument to form the notes for a C-chord. “Okay, strum it.”

Rodney strummed the strings but still it was tinny and didn’t exactly sound like Stairway To Heaven.

“Plug it in,” Jason said. Then he grinned. “It’ll probably sound just as bad, only louder.”

Rodney plugged the cord into the amp and turned it on.

Jason adjusted a couple of knobs and turned the volume up full. “Go ahead,” he said, handing him a plastic pick. “Let’er rip.”

Rodney gripped the pick between his thumb and forefinger, raised his arm back as if he was about to burn a 90-mile-an-hour fastball over home plate and ripped the pick across the strings. The deafening sound slammed the air with the force of a hurricane. It rattled the windows and shook the walls.

The sonic blast was immediately followed by the voice of Jason’s father shouting up the stairs. “Turn it down, goddamit! You wanna wake the dead?”

Rodney looked at Jason and grinned. “Yup,” he said quietly, with a kind of prophetic confidence. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”

***

There’s an old story––a true story, at least in part, and famous among guitarists––about a young black man, a guitar player named Robert Johnson. Johnson was born into poverty in the deep South in 1911. He endured a life fraught with hardship and trouble but he managed to learn the guitar. He soon gained some local recognition as a good blues guitarist but ‘good’ wasn’t good enough for Robert. One day he disappeared from the local music scene and no one knew where he’d gone. A short time later he reappeared, guitar in hand, but now “he could play the hell out o’ that thing,” as one of the locals put it. Legend has it that during his short absence he had gone to the Crossroads.

According to the folklore of the rural South, the place where two roads cross was often thought to be a kind of evil vortex where the Devil could pop up at any moment and steal the souls of unsuspecting travelers. As the story goes, Robert Johnson took a walk to the infamous, dusty crossroads of Highways 61 and 49 in Clarksdale, Mississippi where––in the middle of the night, under a full moon––he made a deal with the Devil. The deal was simple. Robert promised his soul to the Devil if, in exchange, the Devil would bestow upon him the ability to play blues guitar like no one had ever heard before. The Devil agreed, took the guitar from Robert, retuned it, and handed it back to him. That done, the deal was sealed and Robert walked away into the night and into the realm of legend.

Young Rodney Duckworth didn’t know this story the first time he struck that resounding C-chord in Jason’s bedroom. Nevertheless, that very moment, on that rainy afternoon, was Rodney’s first step on his journey to the Crossroads.

***

Three years later:

Rodney Duckworth was now the lead guitar player and primary vocalist of his own death-metal band, GraveStone. The band was good but, echoing the Robert Johnson story––which, by now, Rodney had indeed heard––good wasn’t good enough.

Rodney’s disenchantment had nothing to with the other members of the band, really. They weren’t the problem. His boyhood friend, Jason, played great rhythm guitar. Billy Cox was a monster on bass and Rick DeCarlo was arguably one of the best young drummers around. But nothing was happening. A few gigs had come their way but most of them paid so little it was hardly worth the effort. It wasn’t for lack of trying. They tried everything they could think of to promote the band. They even posted videos of two of their best live performances on the Internet and despite their efforts to promote the videos through a number of popular on-line social-networking sites, no one seemed to be taking notice. Rodney, himself, had developed into a good guitar player, a very good player, in fact. But that, he decided, was the problem. Good and very good were not going to cut it. Good guitar players––even very good guitar players––were a dime a dozen. He needed to be flat-out, mother-f*cking, kick-ass great if they were going to go anywhere in the business. But how? Sell his soul to the Devil? Not likely. At least not yet. No, the only way it was going to happen was for him to do it on his own and this goal became an insane obsession.

***

After several months of driving himself to the brink of exhaustion, choosing to play rather than eat, drink, or sleep, he finally made the breakthrough that his tortured––sometimes bleeding––fingers had been striving for. The litmus test for his arrival into the realm of mother-f*cking-kick-ass greatness would be to slip any Eddie Van Halen CD into the player and match every blazing solo, note-for-note, the finger taps, the pull-offs, the tapping harmonics, the works. The day he broke through that barrier was the day he put the guitar down, collapsed on the bed and slept for eighteen hours straight. And somewhere near the end of that stretch of darkness he had a dream that would change the course of his life forever.

Just a few short years earlier––in fact, just a day or so after he’d struck that first C-Chord in Jason’s bedroom at the age of 15––Rodney had been surfing the Internet for information about heavy-metal bands. It was during one of those searches that he stumbled upon a website dedicated to the infamous practitioner of the Dark Arts, Aleister Crowley. Rodney was immediately taken with the concept behind Crowley’s ideas about ritual magick. The word was always spelled with a k, as Rodney learned, to differentiate it from the parlor tricks and illusions produced by stage magicians. This was not that. This was the real thing.

Rodney felt a strangely intimate connection with Crowley, especially resonating with Crowley’s own tortured Christian upbringing and his later rebellion against the whole idea of Christianity. For the next three years Rodney delved ever deeper into the writings and activities of the strange man whom, he learned, had once been known as The Beast, ‘the wickedest man in the world’. But there was another name Crowley had taken for himself, a name not as well known to most people. The name was Mega Therion. It was Greek for The Great Beast.

Presently, as Rodney lay dreaming, his mind reeled with strange, surrealistic images, the shrill sounds of blazing guitar riffs, and the faces of unrecognizable people. Then he began drifting away from it all ––or it was all drifting away from him––until he found himself alone in the middle of an intersection where two dusty, deserted roads crossed. He stood there, squinting against the glare of a blazing hot sun. The air was dead still. The heavy smell of dry grass and baked earth stuffed his nostrils. Disoriented and utterly lost, he looked around for something, anything that seemed familiar. But all he could see in any direction was flat, desolate land. Soon––unnaturally soon, it seemed––the sunlight began to fade. Purple shadows crept across the baron landscape and moments later he was enveloped in an eerie darkness save for the glow of a full moon directly overhead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the silhouette of a figure, perhaps a man, in the distance, at the far end of the road to his left. Soon another––an exact duplicate of the first––appeared at the far end of the road to his right. He spun around and saw another on the road behind him. He turned back and saw yet another figure down the road in front of him. From the four directions the dark figures approached, until they converged at the center of the crossroads where he watched them merge, coalescing into the single figure of a solitary man.

“Hello Rodney. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, You’re the Beast.”

“Hmm… but I have another name, you know.”

“I know.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Mega Therion.”

“Very good. Now that, too, shall be the name of your band.”

“The name of my band? Why?”

“Trust me. Now, tell me your name.”

“My name? You know my name.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Rodney.”

“Rodney what?”

“Rodney Duckworth.”

“Does that sound to you like the name of the leader of a death-metal band?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Indeed not. Your name shall now be known to the world as Rye Cowl. And I do mean the world. Simple as that. Aum. Ha.”

Rodney awoke with a start, drenched in sweat and shaking from the encounter. He looked at his watch. It was just after 2 a.m. He didn’t know what day it was. Or what night it was. He only knew he had to call Jason.

“Jase?”

“Rodney? What’s up, dude? You sound like you got a hangover.”

“Listen, man. Get the guys together. We gotta meet at the garage.”

“Dude, do you know what time it is?”

“I don’t care. Just do it. This is important.”

“What the f*ck, man. Are you nuts? You been drinkin’?”

“Jason! Just do it, man!”

“All right! Jesus. I’ll call them. But they’re not gonna wanna come over. I mean, you know, like Rick, man. He’s gotta get up and go to work in the morning. And Billy. I don’t know what he’s doing. Probably doing that chick he met the other day. He definitely won’t be coming over if that’s the case. You should see her. Man, she’s––”

“Just f*cking call them, will ya? Tell them to get their asses over to your place. We’ll meet in the garage.”

Jason’s parents owned a nice suburban home with a double-car garage separated from the house. The house and the garage were situated a considerable distance from the street, and were separated from any neighboring homes by a vacant lot on each side. It was a perfect set-up for the band’s long and hellaciously loud practice sessions. The garage had become much more than just the birthplace of Rodney’s band. In Rodney’s mind it was a holy place, his church. The guitar was his crucifix and death-metal was his religion––a religion he wore wrapped around him like a cloak. Jason, Rick and Billy were in it for the fun of it, the comradeship, something to do. Rodney was in it because he had no choice.

“Why don’t you call them?” Jason argued. “Your phone’s not broken. And what the hell is the big deal anyway?”

“Believe me, it is a big deal. The band’s got a new name.”

“What?”

“And so do I.”

“What? What the f*ck are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. I’ve got some things to do. Call the guys.”

***

Rodney’s announcement about changing his name, as well as the name of the band, was met with extreme skepticism by the rest of the group that night in the garage. But eventually, reluctantly, they succumbed to Rodney’s bizarre idea. The band was going nowhere in its current incarnation so they figured it couldn’t hurt. They could never, however, in their wildest rock-star-wanna-be fantasies, have imagined the extraordinary and ultimately horrific chain of events that this decision was about to unleash.

Rodney––who now insisted he be referred to as Rye Cowl and only Rye Cowl, despite the reluctant glances from his band mates––immediately deleted the videos of the band’s old performances from the Internet and replaced them with videos of the band––now billed as Mega Therion––performing in the sacred temple of Jason’s garage.

The songs on these new videos were no different from those performed on the previous videos. They were, in fact, exactly the same. The response, however, was as if a spell had been cast across the entire nation. The videos went viral in no time, attracting huge amounts of attention. A Mega Therion fan base had formed seemingly overnight and requests for their CD were pouring in to their website by the hundreds. There was only one problem. They had no CD. The explosive surge in their popularity had taken them completely off guard. They knew in advance that a CD would have to be the next step but they had no idea they would need to take that step so soon. It would cost money, lots of money. Studio time was expensive, more than they could possibly dredge up in a short time. Sitting around in the garage, the boys didn’t know whether to celebrate or cry.

Jason’s frustration was at a peak. He chucked an empty beer bottle across the garage, just missing Billy’s head. It bounced off the wall onto Rick’s snare drum. It bounced off the drum and tumbled onto a paint can where it spun a half turn before toppling onto the floor and proceeded to roll across the floor right back to Jason. Jason stuck his foot out and stopped it, dead. “Shit!”

The moment of comic relief temporarily eased the tension they were all feeling. A chorus of laughter filled the garage. But Jason wasn’t laughing. “It ain’t funny,” he yelled. Billy snorted out a chuckle. The others stifled the temptation.

Jason picked up the beer bottle, bored holes into it with his eyes, and considered tossing it again but it seemed pointless. “We could be getting f*cking rich selling CDs like hotcakes,” he said. “But between us all we couldn’t afford studio time if our lives depended on it. And where the hell is Rodney… or Rye, or whatever the hell he’s calling himself today.”

Just then the side door of the garage opened and Rye Cowl stepped in.

Cowl closed the door behind him and stood quietly for a moment, looking at the others. They couldn’t quite read the look on his face but that was nothing new. It had become difficult to read him at all anymore, since the night he’d had the weird dream about changing his name and the name of the band. There was more than just a name change going on with the former Rodney Duckworth. He seemed different, almost as if someone else had crawled into his skin. He was losing weight, not that he needed to. Chubby little Rodney Duckworth had grown up to become a tall, blonde-haired, chiseled-faced young man with a slender but solid build. Now the hollows beneath his prominent cheekbones were becoming deeper, his torso thinner, his eyes darker, his long, straight, blonde hair––now past his shoulders––was dyed jet black. Rodney Duckworth had undergone a complete metamorphosis and emerged as Rye Cowl, leader of a group that was soon to become a full-fledged death-metal phenomenon. Cowl shoved his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket and casually leaned against the wall. “Um––” he started. “You guys might want to sit down.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Christ. Now what?”

Cowl shrugged and feigned a tone of nonchalance. “Oh, well, I just got a call from Rusty Howard.”

Everyone’s jaw dropped simultaneously. The name was legendary. Rusty Howard was the owner of SubGenre Recording Studios, the once small but now highly influential independent company that launched the careers of some of Seattle’s garage bands to stardom in the ‘80s.

It took a moment for Cowl’s words to sink in.

Jason shot Cowl a skeptical look. “Bullshit.”

Cowl grinned. “No bullshit. He’s been monitoring our website.”

Rick’s eyes lit up with anticipation. “Well, c’mon! What’d he want?”

Cowl hesitated, drawing some perverted pleasure from their agony.

Jason pointed the beer bottle at Cowl. “Stop f*ckin’ around, Rye! What’d he want?”

“What do you think he wanted?” Cowl said. “He wants to sign us.”

Billy jumped up, his eyes wide. “Are you shitting us? Is that for real?”

Cowl opened the garage door again, stepped out, leaving Jason, Rick and Billy with confused looks on their faces. A moment later he popped back in with a case of beer. “Boys,” he said, handing a brew to each of them, “If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’. He wants us to come down Saturday and sign on the dotted line. Two-year contract to start. We’ll begin cutting a CD in his studio on Monday. That is…” he paused and grinned, “…if you guys don’t mind.”

The celebration that night lasted into the wee hours. Saturday the deal was made, the contract was signed and two weeks later the recording of their first CD, Rise Of The Beast, was completed and in production. By the end of the year 100,000 copies had been sold and a tour of the hottest arenas up and down the West coast had drawn countless thousands of head-banging fans. Mega Therion had become a phenomenon. The money was rolling in. Life was good. Hell, it was great. Then tragedy struck.

At least most people would have considered it a tragedy. But the death of Rodney’s parents in a car accident––even though, ironically, it was on his own 21st birthday––seemed to barely phase the young star now known to the world as Rye Cowl. Rodney had never felt close to his parents and now, fully entrenched in his new persona, he almost felt as if he was not related to them at all. Jason, Rick and Billy couldn’t quite comprehend his callous attitude about the whole thing. Then again, understanding Rye Cowl was something they didn’t spend a lot of time trying to do anymore. As long as he kept churning out hit songs and as long as the CDs kept selling and the money continued to roll in, that was good enough for them. Nothing, it seemed, could stop Mega Therion from scorching its way across the musical landscape. It was as if the fires of Hell were blazing the trail and all the band had to do was follow in its wake.

***

CD sales reached the one million mark. The boys were up to their necks in a river of money that seemed like it would flow forever. Jason bought himself a classic, red, ’57 Thunderbird convertible and moved out of his parent’s house into an elaborately appointed high-rise condo overlooking the Seattle skyline. He was on top of the world.

Rick was sitting pretty in a new ‘Beamer’ convertible and Billy bought a Porche. They both purchased homes relatively close to one another inside one of the city’s upscale, gated communities. They were living the life of millionaire party animals even if it was much to the chagrin of several of their more conservative neighbors.

Cowl, oddly enough, didn’t seem all that interested in the money. He did buy a glossy black, completely restored-to-mint, 1959 Cadillac with tinted windows, and a custom-installed stereo. From the deadly sharp tail fins to the enormous front chrome bumper, the classic rolling land yacht was only slightly shorter in length than an aircraft carrier, a perfect size for hauling around his expanding ego. He named the car, Maybellene, after a classic of another kind, his favorite old Chuck Berry song. As far as major purchases, however, that was about it for him.

Standing alone now in the kitchen of his parent’s home, staring blankly out the window over the sink, Cowl watched the sun going down behind the trees. The money meant little to him. He was satisfied to bask in the glory of his success, the freedom from his parents and, perhaps most of all, in having finally broken the restraints which, for so long, had kept him chained to that loser, the nobody that nobody ever really knew. Rodney F*ckworth-Not-Worth-a-F*ck was, indeed, now worth a f*ck. A million of them.

A tiny smile formed at the corners of his mouth. His someday was near. He didn’t know how it would happen, what it would be like, or even when it would happen. All he knew was that he could feel it coming.

He turned away from the window and moved into the living room. The old curtains, the old carpet, the old furniture, the old paint on the walls. It all seemed so foreign to his newly acquired persona and yet it was uncomfortably all too familiar. There wasn’t a place in the house where he couldn’t still smell the alcohol on his father’s breath or hear the preachy, nagging voice of his overbearing mother.

He walked across the room and sat in the overstuffed chair where his father used to park his lazy ass and drink his cheap booze until he passed out. Cowl raised a hand and gently smacked the big, soft, round arm of the chair. A plume of dust rose and settled. He looked around and nodded. It was time to move.

***

Rye Cowl could have had any house in the city. There were plenty of mansions available in a metropolis the size of Seattle. Hell, he could have purchased a beauty on the shores of Lake Washington, just down the road from Bill Gates if he’d wanted to. But those homes didn’t feel right to him. He wanted something different. Something more suitable to the dark and heavy persona he’d come to embrace––or which had come to embrace him. He took his time. Weeks passed. Then, one dark, blustery, rainy afternoon, he found it.

After touring around the city for hours in the rolled-and-pleated comfort of Maybellene, he’d somehow unintentionally ended up on Seattle’s old Capitol Hill, driving down the tree-lined avenue of Millionaire’s Row.

As Maybellene’s wipers swished back and forth, battling in vain against the driving rain, he passed––almost without notice––the well-kept estates and meticulously manicured lawns. Squinting to see through the torrential downpour, his attention zeroed in on something––something large and dark––at the far end of the avenue. He approached slowly and pulled Maybellene over to the curb directly in front of a disheveled, and apparently abandoned old mansion.

He switched off the engine and sat silently, staring at the place. Something about it was familiar. Then it hit him. Oh, man. It’s Moorehouse Manor. He recalled reading an article about it just a few years earlier. A photo had accompanied the article and he could see now the great home had not changed at all. The theme of the article focused on historically prominent people from Seattle’s past. In addition to the information about William Bentley Moorehouse, it also mentioned the rather disturbing rumors about William’s son, Michael Moorehouse, who had inherited the home when the elder Moorehouse died. According to the rumors, the article revealed, the younger Moorehouse had a bizarre fascination with black magick and a rather unhealthy obsession with the infamous Aleister Crowley.

Cowl grinned.

Two weeks later, on a cold winter afternoon in the year of 2007, Rye Cowl became the newest resident on Millionaire’s Row. He settled into the dank, dreary mansion as comfortably as one slides one’s tired feet into a pair of old slippers. He was home at last.

***

On Cowl’s first night in his new surroundings he smoked a bowl of his best weed and unpacked his few belongings which included two boxes of his favorite books. He began the task of placing the books on a shelf in the library, a room with which he had felt an immediate and intimate kinship. The room seemed to welcome him as if it had been waiting all those years for his arrival.

The final book to be shelved was a hefty volume, the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe. As he was about to place the book on the shelf, it slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He tried to catch it but he fumbled in the attempt. It tumbled around to the side of the bookcase.

He stooped to retrieve the book and found it had fallen open, quite serendipitously, to his favorite of Poe’s tales of terror, The Fall Of The House Of Usher. Situated comfortably, cross-legged, on the exquisite Persian carpet covering the floor, he took a moment to browse the opening lines of the story. But the hour was late, he was tired, the effects of the marijuana were doing their job and there was a chill in the air of the old library. I’ll take it upstairs, he thought, and read it in bed. Indeed, it seemed like a fitting way to end the day.

He closed the book and started to stand but, feeling the full impact of the weed by this time, his legs were unsteady. Light-headed and wobbly, he stumbled backward against the bookcase causing the structure to slide sideways. It moved not more than half an inch but it was enough to reveal an otherwise nearly invisible and hair-thin seam in the wall.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed it was not so much a seam in the wall as it was a very narrow gap. It extended from the floor upward to about eight feet, at which point it made a 90-degree turn and continued on behind the bookcase. Curious now, he leaned against the bookcase and slid it another couple of feet along the wall. Well, well, he mused. What have we here?

He was convinced it must be some sort of a door. But how to open it? There were no visible hinges and no door latch of any kind. He pushed against it. Nothing budged. He tried again, harder. Still no movement. What the hell? He was about to lay into it with more force when he noticed a small flat button, flush against the wall, just off to the side. He pushed the button and heard what sounded like the click of a latch inside the wall. The section of wall sprang open, just slightly, apparently on a vertical hinge at the center. He pushed it a little more and it pivoted on its center axis, opening like a revolving door.

He peeked his head into the dark space. The slightly musty smell of abandonment wafted into his nostrils. He reached in with one arm and felt around for a light switch but found none. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and gave it a flick. It provided enough light to see a few feet into the room.

He stepped in, scanned the wall for a light switch, found it and flipped it on. The result was a dim, but adequate light from the one working bulb in a large chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling. He stood at the door and surveyed the room.

Empty bookcases lined the walls to the left and right of the door. A few feet directly in front of the door was a brown leather couch. Near the far wall sat a large, dark, Victorian style desk facing out into the room. Atop the desk were three objects, two of which he could not discern from where he stood. The one that he could identify was an old brass desk lamp. He moved closer for a better look.

At first he thought one of the objects must be a flower vase. But why did it have a lid? He picked up the odd relic, blew off the dust and ran his fingers over the strangely faceted, deep red gemstone attached to it. Then he noticed the name and dates inscribed into the black ceramic finish. What the––?

He turned on the desk lamp, brought the object into the light and looked again. What? Aleister-f*cking-Crowley? No way! He realized then that the object was a funerary urn. Goosebumps rolled across his flesh. He lifted the lid and tipped the urn. A small amount of ash slid forward. Startled, he tipped the urn back upright and replaced the lid. He felt a flutter in his chest. This can’t be real. Then his eyes fell upon the third object, a dust-covered diary.

He lowered himself into the chair behind the great desk, picked up the diary and brushed the dust off the leather covering. He turned it over and back again. What in the world do we have here?

He leaned back in the chair and opened the book. The solitary light in the chandelier suddenly flickered and went out. Surrounded by darkness––save for the small dim circle of light from the desk lamp––his body tensed. He could no longer see the door on the other side of the room. The old house had become disturbingly quiet. The usual creaks and groans of the aging timbers had fallen silent. He held his breath. Time ceased. He wondered for a moment if even the world outside had vanished.

He sat motionless, gathering the courage to get up and feel his way to the door. But as he rose from the chair the light in the chandelier flickered again and came back on. He fell back into the chair and froze. Moving only his eyes, afraid to breathe, he scanned the room. He heard the familiar sound of an old timber creaking somewhere deep in the bowels of the house. Listening closely, he detected the faint whisper of the wind outside. He released his breath, his tension eased. He took another look around. No ghosts. No demons. A nervous chuckle involuntarily rattled up from his churning gut. Just a faulty f*cking light bulb.

Convinced that all was once again right with the world, he eased back in the chair, flipped open the diary and began to read.