Ash Return of the Beast

CHAPTER 5



Three Months Earlier…

Leaning back in the old leather chair, Cowl paged through the diary, absorbing with intense interest the strange life and experiences of Michael Moorehouse. The more he learned about Moorehouse’s obsession with Crowley, the more he began to feel an odd sort of kinship with the man. Cowl was mesmerized by the diary entry about the episode with the Messenger. The mysterious riddle fascinated him. He studied it with a zealous curiosity:

My number is no secret.

The secret is in reverse.

It is encoded

In chapter and in verse.

Let he who has wisdom

Discover the sacred key.

Only then can he become

The embodiment of me.

Cowl read every detail in the diary and reflected on his own experiences and his own personal infatuation with Crowley. He became convinced that his moving into Moorehouse Manor was no mere coincidence. Fate, he was certain, had brought him to this very moment. His discovery of the hidden room behind the bookcase was one thing. But the idea that he was the one destined to become the host for the essence of Crowley’s spirit excited him nearly to the point of nausea. But how? he wondered. Will I have to drink the Soma? The thought frightened him. He knew even less about the magical elixir than Moorehouse had known. And what about the Messenger? Had it been real? It seemed too weird to be true. A moment of doubt crept in. Maybe the Messenger was nothing more than a drug-induced hallucination. No, it had to be real. Too many details in the whole friggin’ story for it to be one sick-o’s imagination. Germer receiving the urn and burying it... Moorehouse digging it up and bringing it back here to the house... The house that I, of all people, bought and moved into. It’s all real. It’s gotta be real. But the damned riddle. The key to the whole thing is in that damned riddle. Shit!

He read the words of the riddle over and over until his eyes grew tired. The night was descending heavily and he was unable to bear the weight of it much longer. He soon gave in to a deep sleep right there in the lap of the old Moorehouse chair that seemed to caress him, protecting him, rocking him, mothering him like some ancient benevolent keeper of precious souls.

Moments later he was awakened by the sound of someone speaking his name. His eyes snapped open. He sat up in the chair and looked around. “What the––? Who’s there?”