Whee, all finished
Sep. 4th, 2004 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taratemimaSo, erm, give me feedback
I have not slept well since the discovery of Sander Pagano's broken body in his uncle's basement. The police took some note of the strange circle in chalk in his basement room and the faint stench, but found nothing else out of the ordinary. No drugs were found and no note was left. I would have said nothing else about the incident, except for the faint hope that writing it down will let me sleep at night.
I would have never predicted this would start one snowy Monday afternoon. I work part time stacking books and updating the book collection database at a library in a small Illinois city of Roselle. Before work, I would take courses for my MLS at the University of Illinois, a long drive from Roselle. I was assigned to circulation while Mimi, one of the librarians, goes out to call her sitter. I remember whispered worries of a blizzard, but I wasn't worried. I survived enough New England winters. Of course, even a blizzard in Michigan is more cheerful than a strawberry spring in Arkham. Going to Miskatonic is one of those life-changing experiences I never want to repeat again.
I glanced to see a man with lank and long dark brown hair in front of his face in the second book shelf. Perhaps it was stereotyping, but I wasn't surprised that he was in the occult section (I have a memory for Dewey Decimal, but I make a point to immediately forget where the patron was). He pulled out a thin green book, and then he would put it back. He came to my desk. I saw then that he was young, maybe in his twenties. Even with his hair, but you could see him glaring. It was almost as if he was waiting for someone, anyone to look at him funny. He was dressed in layers: black jeans, black sweater, gray sweatshirt, and white sneakers. He hunched his shoulders and balled his fist.
I was not paid to observe him, so I get down to business. "May I help you, sir?"
"You got Glorious Rising," he said in a voice reminiscent of a boy imitating a Mafioso.
I did hide my wincing and typed in the title. "I'm sorry, but the copy at this branch has been checked out. However, we can put in a request for interlibrary loan. I'll just need your library card."
I could have just scanned his card, be amused that Pagano, his last name, is the Italian via Latin version of 'redneck,' and type in that request. Instead, I murmured that there are better treatises on Christian theology than this book.
"I ain't looking for theology," he replies, "I'm looking for, like, a story. Like in the Jack Chick comics, stories that teach you something."
I met his glare with my own glare. "If you mean teach 'We're right, they're wrong, they are going to burn neener neener neener,' well, certainly, the Left Behind series can teach you that. Need I mention that the events in the series are a radically different analysis of Revelations than what Biblical scholars think? Repentance and redemption aren't the focus here. They dangle a promise of being in on secrets, of being the enlightened few who get to watch the rest of the world punished. All it needs to be Gnosticism is a few dark blue robes."
"Are you a Christian?"
"I am an interested observer of religions. I know Christians who would disagree immensely with the books' themes. I just summarized their arguments." It was partially true, but I was also an observer of rituals and myths mostly unknown to civilized humans. Whatever belief I had in an omnipotent transcendent god is ripped open by what little I know. Somehow, the faint belief in humanity, that they can learn from the past and decide between what remains and what needs to be changed, kept me sane. I stopped my esoteric studies because I did not want even that feather of a belief to blow away.
He glared some more. "Why should I care what some college kids and some liberal think about this book? Why the fuck are you giving me shit for wanting to read Glorious Rising?"
I start to laugh at being called a 'liberal' but stopped myself. One thing my supervisor often said was, "Oliver, you cannot correct everyone's literary taste. You cannot do it as a stacker, and you will not be able to do it as a librarian." Perhaps my habit of recommending better books went too far. "I'm sorry. I have already put in a request for . . ."
Then the man, who I knew as Sander Pagano, started mumbling. "You're just like the others." I did not responding; I was too busy doing a search for available copies.
Silence was the wrong answer. He kept talking, increasing in volume. "You're one of those fucking faggots telling me what to do. Get a job. Calm down. Take your medication regularly. Stop being on the Internet all the time. Don't send money to a subsidy publishing. Fuck them. I got a horror anthology to publish, and that will shut the fuckers up. I know I'm right. I know it will all work out for me, and that all the faggots who say my writing sucks are going to be so sorry. I come from a good fundamentalist upbringing. Unlike those fags--I don't mean just perverts who fuck men, but you know--I'm going some place other than hell. Assholes!"
I managed not to ask how his target audience is going to read his books after the Rapture. But he raised his voice just enough. "This is a library, Mister Pagano. Keep your voice down, or I will ask you to leave. I have put in a request for Glorious Rising. We will send you mail--"
He then lunged into the desk, his face getting into mine. I kept my back straight and my glare steady while he screamed. "When people gave me shit in high school, I opened up their faces with a padlock. I could do that to you, you faggot smart--"
He was about to raise his right fist, but I blocked it with my left. "Security," I ordered in my most stentorian voice. If I didn't, I certainly would be tempted to do more than block.
He was escorted out of the building. While he made no effort to resist, he kept up his rant. The other patrons' heads turned while he screamed, "My name is going to be up in the horror section and you'll be sorry you ever messed with me, you fucking faggot!"
The next week, Sander Pagano tried to get into the library many times. The head librarian gave strict orders to security. After that, I would have forgotten the whole incident, assuming it was one of the reasons to keep my big mouth shut, if it were not for the other librarians. They would stop me and tell me that he was a regular user of the public terminals and fiction stacks. He often took out books by Poe and King with some smattering of Koontz. The older librarians remember that when he was younger, he was given to sullen glares and left Chick tracts in the bathrooms, but left people alone.
It was the librarians who lived in the area all their lives who noticed the change in Sander. Perhaps it was after he dropped out of college.
Sometimes, when the librarian seemed sympathetic, he would talk of his plans to write horror and really show 'those snobs back there.' He would go to the reading room to scribble down his stories as quick as his big hands could write, influenced by his favorite authors. Judging by the tapes that librarians saw beside him as he blocked the world with his headphones, maybe his writing was influenced by the baroque lyrics of his favorite metal bands too. He seemed to be driven to write it all down, too absorbed to bother anyone.
That changed over time. The sympathetic librarians would Sander complain about rejection notes and how horror was dominated by 'sick tales of gay vampires.' Publishing trends come and go, and people with their own visions suffer. The sympathy dried up, however, when he talked of 'everyone being too homo friendly' and 'I don't care if there is no sex in there, if someone writes about a faggot, I know that they had sex sometime, and it makes me fucking sick to think about it.' They told him that they rather not hear that talk, and he stopped talking to them altogether. Maybe I should be more offended on behalf of my bisexual brethren, but I would have just told him that he should fantasize about something else. Still, he kept to himself, glowering in frustration at the paper and e-mail rejection letters.
At first, he would sulk and walk away when lab assistants told him his computer time was up. Later, some of the formerly sympathetic librarians would get angry glares and middle fingers. He would be told to keep it down. Sometimes, some of the other lab assistants heard him threaten to either call the police about violating his rights or kill the unfortunate assistant who told him to get off the computer. The altercation at the circulation desk was an accumulation of all this.
A couple weeks after, I was returning to the library from an early supper with friends. I spotted Sander running toward me and screaming. "You fucking snobby fag," he screamed, "Stop harassing me, Oliver Palmera! I can't return to the library now without security looking at me funny. I had to borrow my cousin's computer so I can write my fucking anthology I got with some publishers, and as soon as I send them my check, you are so going to be sorry you tried to keep me down! Keep this shit up, and I'll get your number!" I don't even want to have you go down, much less keep you down, I thought, but he ran away when he saw security coming toward him. Plus, did he actually say I harassed him?
Two days later, I was walking home in the sleet. A large man with closely cropped dark hair and a blue windbreaker came up to me. "You the librarian who kicked Sander Pagano out?"
Tensing for a swing, I said "Yeah?"
"I should have seen it coming. Ross Waltman, I run the local writer's group. We get horror, fantasy, science fiction, and mystery writers together and critique our work."
"So what's this about Sander?"
"He was a member of my group, emphasis on 'was.'"
Ross told me that he deals with his writing group had such different writing styles, politics, religious beliefs, and tastes in fiction that he stuck to one simple rule: a good story is one that draws the reader into your world, 'real' or fantasy. Sander joined a few months ago, during the period of frenzied activity the librarians observed. Sander gave his opinions on other works sparingly, but loudly dismissed one sort of story. "He didn't want to read any story with gay or bi characters. Doesn't matter if it wasn't porn, or how good the other parts were. He didn't want to read it, didn't offer any positive comments or say anything other than 'drop the gay character.' Not in those words, mind. I don't get it; some of my favorite characters were not like me and didn't live how I want to live. But, like I said, the writer pulled me in. Made me wonder what other characters he wanted dropped." This blanket refusal angered some of the members of the groups. Ross had to use his trial lawyer eloquence to convince the members not to insert explicit gay sex in their stories.
Ross was annoyed at this, but he felt that Sander could be a potentially intriguing storyteller, if he let go of the idea that vague sentences with big words create a Poe-like atmosphere and come up with his ideas. So, in the spirit of constructive criticism, Sander and the rest of group pointed out plot holes, ambiguous sentences and transitional gaps.
"What did he say about that?"
"That he was writing for normal people, not 'fags' like us. I know that most guys his age call anyone they consider lesser than them that, but that is the problem. You can't think you know more than the reader. You need the reader to actually pay attention to your writing instead of ditching your book to look at Internet porn. You have to think of the reader, and that's really all we are trying to get him to do."
"You told him that?"
"Yeah, and he stopped coming. Told us he was signed to one of those vanity-publishing things. That would have been the end of it, except for one thing."
Not sure I wanted to enmesh myself this deep in his life, I nevertheless ask, "What do you mean?"
"I was on my Instant Messenger, and he came on." He then blew his nose. "He told me to call off 'my clique.' I told him that I don’t have a clique, I have a writing group." Ross then laughs and slouches. "I cannot believe what he wrote back."
"What?"
"He typed, 'Keep it up and someone will bury you in his backyard.' I told him to read Elements of Style more and watch The Sopranos less and
blocked him. We hold the writing group in the next town over, ever since he threatened one of the members for 'hacking' into his web page. She copied and pasted some story to send to a friend, but that is not hacking," he said guffawing.
"Why are you letting him choose where you hold your group?"
He sighed and kicked some snow. "You may be right. He has this rep, well, for saying stuff like that, but not really following through. Or at least, that is what I am told. He seems to be as much of a big mouth on-line as he does now."
On-line? Hmph, my information gathering instincts tingled. I wondered what his name would bring on search engines. Using a popular search engine that doesn't categorize its findings, I see his many, many weblogs and many, many flame wars. If he wasn't accusing someone of being gay, he was accusing them of committing incest, not believing in God, and keeping him from publishing his writings and reaching the world. Anyone who was published blew someone and he is the only one worth reading, and maybe Poe. He also told things that I didn't know: he was on disability and hadn't had a girlfriend ever since his fiancée left him because of physical abuse. I actually managed to read the fiction he seemed so focused on. He seemed to be published on these free horror sites that try to put as many authors in the loosest sense in one place. It reminded me of some of the more desperate prostitutes I tricked along side. Three of them would service three men for the price of one. Someone called it 'bull-penning.' Sander, for his part, was alternately vague and condescending, a few poetic turns in a morass of clichés and insults. Malapropisms danced with sexual stereotypes. I could only stand three sentences before closing the window, and I've read Hawthorne and Henry James (and liked it). He will tell everyone he is persecuted for being institutionalized, a college dropout, and a supporter of 'traditional marriage.' I don't buy the persecution complexes of bad hyphenated American artists, why should I buy the right wing version?
Then I had to drive to pick up some Chinese food I ordered. Rain was pouring and the ground was slushy. The weather reminds me of that impromptu road trip to Innsmouth. It didn't last long; we left when I spotted something loping up on Devil's Reef. One of those things I will never do again.
I was focused on what the hell was Sander's problem, anyway? Did he get some 'everyone is a winner' sort of teacher who rewarded mediocre effort rather than push students toward excellence? Or was it some other claptrap of the self-esteem movement? Was his school poorly run? Did SSI make it too easy to spend time trying to push his drool? Did the loudest representatives of conservative Christianity make conservative mean 'hates gays' and Christianity mean the primitive wish for their enemies' total obliteration? He had instincts toward art, but they seemed twisted by anger. He may think he writes about fear, but I don’t think he has faced what he truly fears.
Come to think of it, what was mine, since he isn't as big a threat as he thinks? I was kicked out of my house for having theosophical books and gay porn. I may have inherited my mother's light blue eyes and my father's dark hair and olive skin, but I never warmed to their religious beliefs. I spent my days in the Boston Public Library reading and keeping the faint hope I'd go to college. At night, I walk to the Theatre District and sell my tail. I'm just a library stacker and tech monkey attending grad school, but it is farther than I thought I'd go. I could easily top his sob stories, but others could top mine. The crack houses, jails and alleys are filled with people worse off than I am. Johns never abused me, my Uncle Pero supported me and pushed to enroll me in Saint Stanislaus, and I managed to get enough scholarships to go to Miskatonic. Yet, I made the choice to call Uncle Pero instead of tricking another night, I pushed myself to get good grades, and I pushed myself to get through a double major of chemistry and comparative religion. I made the choice to improve my life that Sander never did for his writing. At the same time, deciding to take out many books on folktales that may point to other intelligent beings was the trigger for getting kicked out.
I used to believe that cosmic forces flow through physical reality, and everyone had a choice on which currents to ride. Miskatonic ripped that belief up. I never delved too deeply into the moldy copies of dark books, but I talked to professors in religion who have. They murmur of even larger forces than on earth, of chaos and the complete meaninglessness of humanity, and the obliteration waiting for us when the stars are right. They may be right. I thought, however, I could make a choice. I can learn exorcism, I can search for and protect information on how to protect others from these forces, and I can push away, for a moment, 'the hands at our throats that we see not.' Maybe it is another chosen current, or maybe I was pushed in. I'm here, for better or worse.
After that, I found an intro Organic Chemistry class, with emphasis on preservation of rare books and science information retrieval, to teach, and so became a stacker on weekends. A good thing, since grammar school students have their winter vacation reports to do. As for the college population, midterms were coming and I needed to spend time grading papers. With that, I put the pathetic tale of Sander Pagano out of my mind.
The day after midterms ended, I was put to work going to the stacks and arranging the books in their correct order. A girl with long and pale blonde hair, acne and a Slipknot t-shirt went into one of the stacks behind mine. I went back to restacking, figuring she ought to be left alone. I saw her come out of the stack with a thin and green book tucked under her arm. She ducked down, not looking anyone in the eye, and walked right past the circulation desk.
"You need to check that book out at the circulation desk first, ma'am," I said in my most authoritative voice. She froze for a moment, and then bolted for the doors. I took off after her, all the while yelling for security. When we come up for budget renewal, I decided, I am going to push for better physical security.
The girl jumped from the stairs, but I ran fast enough to get closer to her. Track was good to me, not just for scholarship money. Security was right behind me, but I managed to grab and tackle the girl. The force and the slippery and frozen grass knocked the book out of her hands and pushed it on the field.
The girl looked at me startled. "I didn't think you guys would catch me. Sander told me-"
That was when the book started to hover. Levitating several feet above the frozen grass, it then flew across the field and away from all of us.
The security guard stood up and scratched his head. "Holy cow."
"Maybe if we talk to this girl," I said, "we can find out where it went." Never mind how it got out.
She didn't talk at first, slouching in the chair and trying not to look at us. I had to reassure her that until she bolted, I didn't care what t-shirt she wore or how long her hair was.
"You mean it? You didn't care?"
"Librarians aren't supposed to." If the librarians at the BPL cared about my tight jeans and torn t-shirt at age 15, I thought, I wouldn't be here with you.
Then she started talking. Her name was Carrie Larsen, and she was an isolated high school freak in a town ten miles from here. She met Sander at a Chicago metal fan chat room. Carrie, despite the Aestru leanings others with her surname have, was a nominal but consistent Lutheran, and bonded with Sander in the midst of self-proclaimed anti-Christians. "Like, I believe in God, though I don't really do church as much as my parents would like me to. Swear too much for them too. Sander believed in God. He seemed to understand all these people thinking we were evil just because we listen to metal."
Eventually, Sander asked a favor from Carrie. "He wanted this book, you know, but he was banned from the library. He told me that if I get it for him, he'd publish my short stories and poetry. I write really bloody stuff. He told me that he was going to return it. It wasn't stealing, I mean, people borrow books from the library anyway. He told me that the stupid library wouldn't let him in because he dressed in black, so, like, that was why I was afraid you'd give me shit for the shirt."
"Actually, he was banned for making death threats."
"He didn't tell me that."
"Obviously."
"Do you remember the title of the book, so I can make a note that it is missing?"
She told me, and I froze. I will not give the actual title since I rather not have other people get it. Most researchers jokingly call it The Dunwich Way to Fun and Profit. It is marketed as a book of spells (funny thing for a born-again Christian to get), but it is more than that. The translator was an acolyte of chaos and a twisted sort of prankster. For one thing, the spells were in Aklo, the script of the worst sort of sorcerers. Secondly, he deliberately mistranslated several incantations. I remember the tale of some kids reading the book on a Halloween night and raising the dead. One unlucky sort did a 'love spell' and was smothered by insects. Then again, maybe the tales about The Dunwich Way to Fun and Profit are only the mildest of the insanity inside. Perhaps the levitation was a spell too, to assure ruin.
I gathered up my courage and devised a plan. "Carrie, in these situations, we would call your parents and start hearings on the theft. Right now, though, I need your help. We need to talk to Sander too. Do you know his address?"
Sander e-mailed Carrie his address, so we were all set. I got my gray piece of crap car and started down to the block Sander lived. Thankfully, the gray piece of crap has my magical equipment, if indeed he brought something up that he cannot put down.
In the car, she talked more. "He said he never wanted a book like he wanted that one. It's like he touched it, and it wanted to come home with him."
She doesn’t talk but then she murmurs, "You think he's going to raise demons or something?"
I shook my head. "It's worse than that. Infernal beings at least understand human desire. They are tied to humans. If I am right, what Sander may raise has been here before humans, will be after we all die out and care nothing for us. If anything, if it feels anything, it would very much like to torment us simply by existing, by showing how little we really know." Carrie edged away from me until she was leaning against the door. I'm not offended; most of my dates tend to end that way too. I am grateful at least; some who have delved into the mysterious book collection of Miskatonic had their social skills blasted away, among other things.
Sander's street was cul-de-sac with a quiet row of working class families trying to make it through the recession. I finally came to the house with dull white paint, rusted fence and dirty and shoveled snow, carrying my bag of instruments, with Carrie close behind.
A plain and beaten-looking man in a gray shirt and jeans answered the door. "Yeah?"
Carrie spoke. "It's me, the girl who’s visiting Sander. I just got back from, er, the store."
"Who’s this guy," the man said, pointing to me.
"He's from a publishing company."
"Oh yeah. Got a contract? Because I'm all for my nephew writing, but, God, he could make more money. Oh well, if he isn't going to do construction stuff like I keep asking him . . ." With that, the uncle let us in.
The uncle then led us into the house. There was a rumbling and droning that seemed to come up from under. Sometimes I heard high-pitched whines. "He's in the basement. He's gonna insist you knock; got some important thing he's doing. Maybe it's writing." He tapped me on the shoulder. "Could you tell him to turn down whatever the fuck he has on? I can barely hear the news." I shivered with the thought of just what he did.
I knocked softly, but no answer. I turned around and said, "Carrie, you stay here. If I start screaming, call the police. Never mind—call the police as soon as you can." Carrie just nods. "Wait, you told me-," the uncle started to say, but I already slammed the door open and running down the stairs.
What I saw down there made me shake. The noise got even louder, almost blocking out any sound. Sander was there, but he was levitating almost to the ceiling. He was naked, with bruises and incision-like sores all over his body. He twitched helpless, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. I lifted up a piece of black fabric and recognized it as the Iced Earth t-shirt he was wearing. I knew then I only had what knowledge I remembered and what equipment I could tote. Even that may not be enough, if he picked a particularly nasty spell.
I regret it now, but when I was grabbing the Powder of Ibn Ghazi, I was only hoping to find out what this Sander's tormenter was. I gave one good toss, hoping that I won't lose consciousness.
The thing was horrific, but it didn't make me run screaming, just made my heart pound and my legs frozen. My first impression was a tangle of ropes rising from the cellar floor. Some were as thin as silk cords, while others were as thick and long as plumbing pipes. Gelatinous and gray, they swiveled and writhed all over the room, confined only by the crude chalk circle Sander obviously made. I saw no eyes, nothing to suggest that there was a body, but I knew somehow the body was out there, and the room, the house even, would be too small to confine it. I knew that I am only seeing part of a sanity destroying whole.
The tentacles, best to call them that, held Sander up and above the floor, and held his arms and legs like a medieval rack. One functioned as a gag, which may be why the uncle did not hear any screaming. The rest of them were all over the place. Some slithered around his body, and seemed to dig themselves into various orifices. The smaller tentacles were up his nose and, I don't usually talk like this, but one tentacle, about as thick as a soft drink bottle, seemed lodged into his anus. The larger tentacles flailed all around his room. I saw broken beams and splintered table in the basement. This was more than normal damage. A few tentacles made great cracks in the walls and dents in the washing machine the family owned. Through all this, a seismic-like rumbling drowned out any noise from above. I hoped like hell that the uncle is calling the police. I can write about these things now, but at the time, I was trying to grab any clues I could use to identify and rid this thing from the earthly plane. I saw also Sander was covered by the substance of the thing, his naked body covered by a gray film. I saw him twitch and jerk in pain. One tentacle twitched and knocked down a large chunk of the gray concrete wall. I had no time to lose. I chanted loud and strong, knowing I will be heard by something among the rumbling.
At one point in my chanting, I see a slit on the tentacle open. It was an eye; gray like its body, but with a purple ring around something passing as an iris. I manage to keep chanting, even as my hands were shaking. This is the incantation for representatives of the Old Ones, but what if I am wrong? I kept chanting, despite my cold and black fear.
I ended my chant and the rumbling became louder. I crouched down, bracing myself for any impact. The thing shakes and loosened its grip on Sander. Sander dropped through the tentacled thing and landed on the concrete floor. Its tentacles stiffened up and it seemed to be pulled through the floor, flickering and fading in the room. The tentacles then are pulled through the floor and I heard an unearthly peal, loud enough to make me wobble.
I stood up. Whatever it was gone. It smells awful, like all the landfills of the world, and there is some green-yellow ichor on the wall, but it is over. The crude circle remained, and I dare not smudge it. I can see Sander's body, still covered in goo and bruised purple and yellow all over. I swear some bones were broken there. I didn't want to tamper with evidence, so I went to look for other things, clues to what happened.
I saw the infamous Dunwich Way to Fun and Profit on a rickety card table, opened up to a page and splattered with the same gray goo that covered Sander. I wobbled again, and I grabbed a laundry basket to preserve my equilibrium. I ignored the blather and focused right on the Aklo inscriptions. To really get the language, I would have to be initiated into some family traditions no Wiccan would want to encounter. By accident, though, I know some key words. I recognized one Aklo sign for 'conception' and shuddered. I read the Dr. Armitage's notes on the Dunwich incident of 1928, and he stated he never knew how 'Wizard' Whateley ever conceived the awful twins who were the catalysts for 'the Dunwich horror.' I think I found one, but not the only, component of their conception on Earth.
I glanced away from the book and back to the body. He went through rigor mortis, which explained the brown and white stains on the floor and his erection. Otherwise, I was calm, almost clinical. I just need to look over the damage, I thought.
Just then, I looked at his face, noticing the broken teeth and gray goo all over. I looked closer; what I saw set me tumbling over the laundry basket when the uncle and Carrie came down with the police.
"I would have called them earlier, but all that goddamn droning and rumbling made it hard to get heard. I was using a neighbor's phone when we all heard this screeching and rolling and I wondered if you or Sander were OK." The uncle was panting and shaking, making me think now that he was even more scared for not knowing what was going on. He then glanced at the floor and turned away. "Someone cover him up," he yelled, "give him some dignity." I swore I heard sobbing.
The police covered Sander's body with a sheet and pumped Carrie and me for the tale. Being I was sprawled flat on the floor in the middle of clothing, I couldn't think of a good lie, so I gave them a half-truth. I told them I was going to talk to Sander about returning the book without involving the police, but then he released some noxious substance and I hallucinated. Carrie told her tale of the floating book, but wasn't sure why it was floating. Police felt that I was in the right place and the wrong time and not connected to Sander's death. "The hallucinations may have made it hard for me to save him," I murmured.
The thin green book, the cause of all that trouble, was damaged and placed into the evidence locker. I put down the recommended price for a damaged book, but no one seems in a hurry to replace it. Sander's uncle quietly cremated him cleared the basement. For adding and abating a theft, Carrie was put on probation by the police and had her Internet privileges suspended by her parents. However, she wrote to me in an actual paper letter after getting my address, her parents signed her up with a Lutheran youth group and making some genuine and decent friends. It's over for all of them.
You would think it would be over for me. I am still stacking and still being a grad student. Most nights, though, I spend awake and shaken. When I wasn't bolting awake from the night terrors, I was drinking any alcohol I could find and watching Hellraiser. Hey, I need the laugh.
I must tell you what shook me out of my jaded state. It was not his naked body entwined with the appendages of a terrifying little piece of chaos that drove me to this. It was because I took a good look at Sander's face. It's his mouth I remember the most. Even bleeding from gum damage and filled with gray goo, he seemed like he was smiling wide, a parody of an open mouth smile. His face was relaxed and his eyes were wide with a twisted elation.
I try to tell myself that annoyed that it didn't have the proper vessel for the conception, the thing took what it could, even if it was Sander. Perhaps he figured that it would break Sander's mind. But what did Sander really think? Could the grin be the shocked face frozen in rigor mortis? Could he have enjoyed the abuse the thing was giving him? Is he not as naïve about the darker magics as he seemed and wanted that thing as the only release he could allow himself? What that incantation was said to be for, I did not know. The book did seem to have a pull on him, enough to break the eighth commandment. What did it say to him? Did the book promise him all the beautiful women he wanted? Was that it? Was he promised his hearts' desire by the deceptive and malevolent book? Deceptive because it knew his heart's desire better than he did, but never told him.
I do not know. I know this: he met his fear and it wasn't all what he expected.
Next: revising an old story.
I have not slept well since the discovery of Sander Pagano's broken body in his uncle's basement. The police took some note of the strange circle in chalk in his basement room and the faint stench, but found nothing else out of the ordinary. No drugs were found and no note was left. I would have said nothing else about the incident, except for the faint hope that writing it down will let me sleep at night.
I would have never predicted this would start one snowy Monday afternoon. I work part time stacking books and updating the book collection database at a library in a small Illinois city of Roselle. Before work, I would take courses for my MLS at the University of Illinois, a long drive from Roselle. I was assigned to circulation while Mimi, one of the librarians, goes out to call her sitter. I remember whispered worries of a blizzard, but I wasn't worried. I survived enough New England winters. Of course, even a blizzard in Michigan is more cheerful than a strawberry spring in Arkham. Going to Miskatonic is one of those life-changing experiences I never want to repeat again.
I glanced to see a man with lank and long dark brown hair in front of his face in the second book shelf. Perhaps it was stereotyping, but I wasn't surprised that he was in the occult section (I have a memory for Dewey Decimal, but I make a point to immediately forget where the patron was). He pulled out a thin green book, and then he would put it back. He came to my desk. I saw then that he was young, maybe in his twenties. Even with his hair, but you could see him glaring. It was almost as if he was waiting for someone, anyone to look at him funny. He was dressed in layers: black jeans, black sweater, gray sweatshirt, and white sneakers. He hunched his shoulders and balled his fist.
I was not paid to observe him, so I get down to business. "May I help you, sir?"
"You got Glorious Rising," he said in a voice reminiscent of a boy imitating a Mafioso.
I did hide my wincing and typed in the title. "I'm sorry, but the copy at this branch has been checked out. However, we can put in a request for interlibrary loan. I'll just need your library card."
I could have just scanned his card, be amused that Pagano, his last name, is the Italian via Latin version of 'redneck,' and type in that request. Instead, I murmured that there are better treatises on Christian theology than this book.
"I ain't looking for theology," he replies, "I'm looking for, like, a story. Like in the Jack Chick comics, stories that teach you something."
I met his glare with my own glare. "If you mean teach 'We're right, they're wrong, they are going to burn neener neener neener,' well, certainly, the Left Behind series can teach you that. Need I mention that the events in the series are a radically different analysis of Revelations than what Biblical scholars think? Repentance and redemption aren't the focus here. They dangle a promise of being in on secrets, of being the enlightened few who get to watch the rest of the world punished. All it needs to be Gnosticism is a few dark blue robes."
"Are you a Christian?"
"I am an interested observer of religions. I know Christians who would disagree immensely with the books' themes. I just summarized their arguments." It was partially true, but I was also an observer of rituals and myths mostly unknown to civilized humans. Whatever belief I had in an omnipotent transcendent god is ripped open by what little I know. Somehow, the faint belief in humanity, that they can learn from the past and decide between what remains and what needs to be changed, kept me sane. I stopped my esoteric studies because I did not want even that feather of a belief to blow away.
He glared some more. "Why should I care what some college kids and some liberal think about this book? Why the fuck are you giving me shit for wanting to read Glorious Rising?"
I start to laugh at being called a 'liberal' but stopped myself. One thing my supervisor often said was, "Oliver, you cannot correct everyone's literary taste. You cannot do it as a stacker, and you will not be able to do it as a librarian." Perhaps my habit of recommending better books went too far. "I'm sorry. I have already put in a request for . . ."
Then the man, who I knew as Sander Pagano, started mumbling. "You're just like the others." I did not responding; I was too busy doing a search for available copies.
Silence was the wrong answer. He kept talking, increasing in volume. "You're one of those fucking faggots telling me what to do. Get a job. Calm down. Take your medication regularly. Stop being on the Internet all the time. Don't send money to a subsidy publishing. Fuck them. I got a horror anthology to publish, and that will shut the fuckers up. I know I'm right. I know it will all work out for me, and that all the faggots who say my writing sucks are going to be so sorry. I come from a good fundamentalist upbringing. Unlike those fags--I don't mean just perverts who fuck men, but you know--I'm going some place other than hell. Assholes!"
I managed not to ask how his target audience is going to read his books after the Rapture. But he raised his voice just enough. "This is a library, Mister Pagano. Keep your voice down, or I will ask you to leave. I have put in a request for Glorious Rising. We will send you mail--"
He then lunged into the desk, his face getting into mine. I kept my back straight and my glare steady while he screamed. "When people gave me shit in high school, I opened up their faces with a padlock. I could do that to you, you faggot smart--"
He was about to raise his right fist, but I blocked it with my left. "Security," I ordered in my most stentorian voice. If I didn't, I certainly would be tempted to do more than block.
He was escorted out of the building. While he made no effort to resist, he kept up his rant. The other patrons' heads turned while he screamed, "My name is going to be up in the horror section and you'll be sorry you ever messed with me, you fucking faggot!"
The next week, Sander Pagano tried to get into the library many times. The head librarian gave strict orders to security. After that, I would have forgotten the whole incident, assuming it was one of the reasons to keep my big mouth shut, if it were not for the other librarians. They would stop me and tell me that he was a regular user of the public terminals and fiction stacks. He often took out books by Poe and King with some smattering of Koontz. The older librarians remember that when he was younger, he was given to sullen glares and left Chick tracts in the bathrooms, but left people alone.
It was the librarians who lived in the area all their lives who noticed the change in Sander. Perhaps it was after he dropped out of college.
Sometimes, when the librarian seemed sympathetic, he would talk of his plans to write horror and really show 'those snobs back there.' He would go to the reading room to scribble down his stories as quick as his big hands could write, influenced by his favorite authors. Judging by the tapes that librarians saw beside him as he blocked the world with his headphones, maybe his writing was influenced by the baroque lyrics of his favorite metal bands too. He seemed to be driven to write it all down, too absorbed to bother anyone.
That changed over time. The sympathetic librarians would Sander complain about rejection notes and how horror was dominated by 'sick tales of gay vampires.' Publishing trends come and go, and people with their own visions suffer. The sympathy dried up, however, when he talked of 'everyone being too homo friendly' and 'I don't care if there is no sex in there, if someone writes about a faggot, I know that they had sex sometime, and it makes me fucking sick to think about it.' They told him that they rather not hear that talk, and he stopped talking to them altogether. Maybe I should be more offended on behalf of my bisexual brethren, but I would have just told him that he should fantasize about something else. Still, he kept to himself, glowering in frustration at the paper and e-mail rejection letters.
At first, he would sulk and walk away when lab assistants told him his computer time was up. Later, some of the formerly sympathetic librarians would get angry glares and middle fingers. He would be told to keep it down. Sometimes, some of the other lab assistants heard him threaten to either call the police about violating his rights or kill the unfortunate assistant who told him to get off the computer. The altercation at the circulation desk was an accumulation of all this.
A couple weeks after, I was returning to the library from an early supper with friends. I spotted Sander running toward me and screaming. "You fucking snobby fag," he screamed, "Stop harassing me, Oliver Palmera! I can't return to the library now without security looking at me funny. I had to borrow my cousin's computer so I can write my fucking anthology I got with some publishers, and as soon as I send them my check, you are so going to be sorry you tried to keep me down! Keep this shit up, and I'll get your number!" I don't even want to have you go down, much less keep you down, I thought, but he ran away when he saw security coming toward him. Plus, did he actually say I harassed him?
Two days later, I was walking home in the sleet. A large man with closely cropped dark hair and a blue windbreaker came up to me. "You the librarian who kicked Sander Pagano out?"
Tensing for a swing, I said "Yeah?"
"I should have seen it coming. Ross Waltman, I run the local writer's group. We get horror, fantasy, science fiction, and mystery writers together and critique our work."
"So what's this about Sander?"
"He was a member of my group, emphasis on 'was.'"
Ross told me that he deals with his writing group had such different writing styles, politics, religious beliefs, and tastes in fiction that he stuck to one simple rule: a good story is one that draws the reader into your world, 'real' or fantasy. Sander joined a few months ago, during the period of frenzied activity the librarians observed. Sander gave his opinions on other works sparingly, but loudly dismissed one sort of story. "He didn't want to read any story with gay or bi characters. Doesn't matter if it wasn't porn, or how good the other parts were. He didn't want to read it, didn't offer any positive comments or say anything other than 'drop the gay character.' Not in those words, mind. I don't get it; some of my favorite characters were not like me and didn't live how I want to live. But, like I said, the writer pulled me in. Made me wonder what other characters he wanted dropped." This blanket refusal angered some of the members of the groups. Ross had to use his trial lawyer eloquence to convince the members not to insert explicit gay sex in their stories.
Ross was annoyed at this, but he felt that Sander could be a potentially intriguing storyteller, if he let go of the idea that vague sentences with big words create a Poe-like atmosphere and come up with his ideas. So, in the spirit of constructive criticism, Sander and the rest of group pointed out plot holes, ambiguous sentences and transitional gaps.
"What did he say about that?"
"That he was writing for normal people, not 'fags' like us. I know that most guys his age call anyone they consider lesser than them that, but that is the problem. You can't think you know more than the reader. You need the reader to actually pay attention to your writing instead of ditching your book to look at Internet porn. You have to think of the reader, and that's really all we are trying to get him to do."
"You told him that?"
"Yeah, and he stopped coming. Told us he was signed to one of those vanity-publishing things. That would have been the end of it, except for one thing."
Not sure I wanted to enmesh myself this deep in his life, I nevertheless ask, "What do you mean?"
"I was on my Instant Messenger, and he came on." He then blew his nose. "He told me to call off 'my clique.' I told him that I don’t have a clique, I have a writing group." Ross then laughs and slouches. "I cannot believe what he wrote back."
"What?"
"He typed, 'Keep it up and someone will bury you in his backyard.' I told him to read Elements of Style more and watch The Sopranos less and
blocked him. We hold the writing group in the next town over, ever since he threatened one of the members for 'hacking' into his web page. She copied and pasted some story to send to a friend, but that is not hacking," he said guffawing.
"Why are you letting him choose where you hold your group?"
He sighed and kicked some snow. "You may be right. He has this rep, well, for saying stuff like that, but not really following through. Or at least, that is what I am told. He seems to be as much of a big mouth on-line as he does now."
On-line? Hmph, my information gathering instincts tingled. I wondered what his name would bring on search engines. Using a popular search engine that doesn't categorize its findings, I see his many, many weblogs and many, many flame wars. If he wasn't accusing someone of being gay, he was accusing them of committing incest, not believing in God, and keeping him from publishing his writings and reaching the world. Anyone who was published blew someone and he is the only one worth reading, and maybe Poe. He also told things that I didn't know: he was on disability and hadn't had a girlfriend ever since his fiancée left him because of physical abuse. I actually managed to read the fiction he seemed so focused on. He seemed to be published on these free horror sites that try to put as many authors in the loosest sense in one place. It reminded me of some of the more desperate prostitutes I tricked along side. Three of them would service three men for the price of one. Someone called it 'bull-penning.' Sander, for his part, was alternately vague and condescending, a few poetic turns in a morass of clichés and insults. Malapropisms danced with sexual stereotypes. I could only stand three sentences before closing the window, and I've read Hawthorne and Henry James (and liked it). He will tell everyone he is persecuted for being institutionalized, a college dropout, and a supporter of 'traditional marriage.' I don't buy the persecution complexes of bad hyphenated American artists, why should I buy the right wing version?
Then I had to drive to pick up some Chinese food I ordered. Rain was pouring and the ground was slushy. The weather reminds me of that impromptu road trip to Innsmouth. It didn't last long; we left when I spotted something loping up on Devil's Reef. One of those things I will never do again.
I was focused on what the hell was Sander's problem, anyway? Did he get some 'everyone is a winner' sort of teacher who rewarded mediocre effort rather than push students toward excellence? Or was it some other claptrap of the self-esteem movement? Was his school poorly run? Did SSI make it too easy to spend time trying to push his drool? Did the loudest representatives of conservative Christianity make conservative mean 'hates gays' and Christianity mean the primitive wish for their enemies' total obliteration? He had instincts toward art, but they seemed twisted by anger. He may think he writes about fear, but I don’t think he has faced what he truly fears.
Come to think of it, what was mine, since he isn't as big a threat as he thinks? I was kicked out of my house for having theosophical books and gay porn. I may have inherited my mother's light blue eyes and my father's dark hair and olive skin, but I never warmed to their religious beliefs. I spent my days in the Boston Public Library reading and keeping the faint hope I'd go to college. At night, I walk to the Theatre District and sell my tail. I'm just a library stacker and tech monkey attending grad school, but it is farther than I thought I'd go. I could easily top his sob stories, but others could top mine. The crack houses, jails and alleys are filled with people worse off than I am. Johns never abused me, my Uncle Pero supported me and pushed to enroll me in Saint Stanislaus, and I managed to get enough scholarships to go to Miskatonic. Yet, I made the choice to call Uncle Pero instead of tricking another night, I pushed myself to get good grades, and I pushed myself to get through a double major of chemistry and comparative religion. I made the choice to improve my life that Sander never did for his writing. At the same time, deciding to take out many books on folktales that may point to other intelligent beings was the trigger for getting kicked out.
I used to believe that cosmic forces flow through physical reality, and everyone had a choice on which currents to ride. Miskatonic ripped that belief up. I never delved too deeply into the moldy copies of dark books, but I talked to professors in religion who have. They murmur of even larger forces than on earth, of chaos and the complete meaninglessness of humanity, and the obliteration waiting for us when the stars are right. They may be right. I thought, however, I could make a choice. I can learn exorcism, I can search for and protect information on how to protect others from these forces, and I can push away, for a moment, 'the hands at our throats that we see not.' Maybe it is another chosen current, or maybe I was pushed in. I'm here, for better or worse.
After that, I found an intro Organic Chemistry class, with emphasis on preservation of rare books and science information retrieval, to teach, and so became a stacker on weekends. A good thing, since grammar school students have their winter vacation reports to do. As for the college population, midterms were coming and I needed to spend time grading papers. With that, I put the pathetic tale of Sander Pagano out of my mind.
The day after midterms ended, I was put to work going to the stacks and arranging the books in their correct order. A girl with long and pale blonde hair, acne and a Slipknot t-shirt went into one of the stacks behind mine. I went back to restacking, figuring she ought to be left alone. I saw her come out of the stack with a thin and green book tucked under her arm. She ducked down, not looking anyone in the eye, and walked right past the circulation desk.
"You need to check that book out at the circulation desk first, ma'am," I said in my most authoritative voice. She froze for a moment, and then bolted for the doors. I took off after her, all the while yelling for security. When we come up for budget renewal, I decided, I am going to push for better physical security.
The girl jumped from the stairs, but I ran fast enough to get closer to her. Track was good to me, not just for scholarship money. Security was right behind me, but I managed to grab and tackle the girl. The force and the slippery and frozen grass knocked the book out of her hands and pushed it on the field.
The girl looked at me startled. "I didn't think you guys would catch me. Sander told me-"
That was when the book started to hover. Levitating several feet above the frozen grass, it then flew across the field and away from all of us.
The security guard stood up and scratched his head. "Holy cow."
"Maybe if we talk to this girl," I said, "we can find out where it went." Never mind how it got out.
She didn't talk at first, slouching in the chair and trying not to look at us. I had to reassure her that until she bolted, I didn't care what t-shirt she wore or how long her hair was.
"You mean it? You didn't care?"
"Librarians aren't supposed to." If the librarians at the BPL cared about my tight jeans and torn t-shirt at age 15, I thought, I wouldn't be here with you.
Then she started talking. Her name was Carrie Larsen, and she was an isolated high school freak in a town ten miles from here. She met Sander at a Chicago metal fan chat room. Carrie, despite the Aestru leanings others with her surname have, was a nominal but consistent Lutheran, and bonded with Sander in the midst of self-proclaimed anti-Christians. "Like, I believe in God, though I don't really do church as much as my parents would like me to. Swear too much for them too. Sander believed in God. He seemed to understand all these people thinking we were evil just because we listen to metal."
Eventually, Sander asked a favor from Carrie. "He wanted this book, you know, but he was banned from the library. He told me that if I get it for him, he'd publish my short stories and poetry. I write really bloody stuff. He told me that he was going to return it. It wasn't stealing, I mean, people borrow books from the library anyway. He told me that the stupid library wouldn't let him in because he dressed in black, so, like, that was why I was afraid you'd give me shit for the shirt."
"Actually, he was banned for making death threats."
"He didn't tell me that."
"Obviously."
"Do you remember the title of the book, so I can make a note that it is missing?"
She told me, and I froze. I will not give the actual title since I rather not have other people get it. Most researchers jokingly call it The Dunwich Way to Fun and Profit. It is marketed as a book of spells (funny thing for a born-again Christian to get), but it is more than that. The translator was an acolyte of chaos and a twisted sort of prankster. For one thing, the spells were in Aklo, the script of the worst sort of sorcerers. Secondly, he deliberately mistranslated several incantations. I remember the tale of some kids reading the book on a Halloween night and raising the dead. One unlucky sort did a 'love spell' and was smothered by insects. Then again, maybe the tales about The Dunwich Way to Fun and Profit are only the mildest of the insanity inside. Perhaps the levitation was a spell too, to assure ruin.
I gathered up my courage and devised a plan. "Carrie, in these situations, we would call your parents and start hearings on the theft. Right now, though, I need your help. We need to talk to Sander too. Do you know his address?"
Sander e-mailed Carrie his address, so we were all set. I got my gray piece of crap car and started down to the block Sander lived. Thankfully, the gray piece of crap has my magical equipment, if indeed he brought something up that he cannot put down.
In the car, she talked more. "He said he never wanted a book like he wanted that one. It's like he touched it, and it wanted to come home with him."
She doesn’t talk but then she murmurs, "You think he's going to raise demons or something?"
I shook my head. "It's worse than that. Infernal beings at least understand human desire. They are tied to humans. If I am right, what Sander may raise has been here before humans, will be after we all die out and care nothing for us. If anything, if it feels anything, it would very much like to torment us simply by existing, by showing how little we really know." Carrie edged away from me until she was leaning against the door. I'm not offended; most of my dates tend to end that way too. I am grateful at least; some who have delved into the mysterious book collection of Miskatonic had their social skills blasted away, among other things.
Sander's street was cul-de-sac with a quiet row of working class families trying to make it through the recession. I finally came to the house with dull white paint, rusted fence and dirty and shoveled snow, carrying my bag of instruments, with Carrie close behind.
A plain and beaten-looking man in a gray shirt and jeans answered the door. "Yeah?"
Carrie spoke. "It's me, the girl who’s visiting Sander. I just got back from, er, the store."
"Who’s this guy," the man said, pointing to me.
"He's from a publishing company."
"Oh yeah. Got a contract? Because I'm all for my nephew writing, but, God, he could make more money. Oh well, if he isn't going to do construction stuff like I keep asking him . . ." With that, the uncle let us in.
The uncle then led us into the house. There was a rumbling and droning that seemed to come up from under. Sometimes I heard high-pitched whines. "He's in the basement. He's gonna insist you knock; got some important thing he's doing. Maybe it's writing." He tapped me on the shoulder. "Could you tell him to turn down whatever the fuck he has on? I can barely hear the news." I shivered with the thought of just what he did.
I knocked softly, but no answer. I turned around and said, "Carrie, you stay here. If I start screaming, call the police. Never mind—call the police as soon as you can." Carrie just nods. "Wait, you told me-," the uncle started to say, but I already slammed the door open and running down the stairs.
What I saw down there made me shake. The noise got even louder, almost blocking out any sound. Sander was there, but he was levitating almost to the ceiling. He was naked, with bruises and incision-like sores all over his body. He twitched helpless, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. I lifted up a piece of black fabric and recognized it as the Iced Earth t-shirt he was wearing. I knew then I only had what knowledge I remembered and what equipment I could tote. Even that may not be enough, if he picked a particularly nasty spell.
I regret it now, but when I was grabbing the Powder of Ibn Ghazi, I was only hoping to find out what this Sander's tormenter was. I gave one good toss, hoping that I won't lose consciousness.
The thing was horrific, but it didn't make me run screaming, just made my heart pound and my legs frozen. My first impression was a tangle of ropes rising from the cellar floor. Some were as thin as silk cords, while others were as thick and long as plumbing pipes. Gelatinous and gray, they swiveled and writhed all over the room, confined only by the crude chalk circle Sander obviously made. I saw no eyes, nothing to suggest that there was a body, but I knew somehow the body was out there, and the room, the house even, would be too small to confine it. I knew that I am only seeing part of a sanity destroying whole.
The tentacles, best to call them that, held Sander up and above the floor, and held his arms and legs like a medieval rack. One functioned as a gag, which may be why the uncle did not hear any screaming. The rest of them were all over the place. Some slithered around his body, and seemed to dig themselves into various orifices. The smaller tentacles were up his nose and, I don't usually talk like this, but one tentacle, about as thick as a soft drink bottle, seemed lodged into his anus. The larger tentacles flailed all around his room. I saw broken beams and splintered table in the basement. This was more than normal damage. A few tentacles made great cracks in the walls and dents in the washing machine the family owned. Through all this, a seismic-like rumbling drowned out any noise from above. I hoped like hell that the uncle is calling the police. I can write about these things now, but at the time, I was trying to grab any clues I could use to identify and rid this thing from the earthly plane. I saw also Sander was covered by the substance of the thing, his naked body covered by a gray film. I saw him twitch and jerk in pain. One tentacle twitched and knocked down a large chunk of the gray concrete wall. I had no time to lose. I chanted loud and strong, knowing I will be heard by something among the rumbling.
At one point in my chanting, I see a slit on the tentacle open. It was an eye; gray like its body, but with a purple ring around something passing as an iris. I manage to keep chanting, even as my hands were shaking. This is the incantation for representatives of the Old Ones, but what if I am wrong? I kept chanting, despite my cold and black fear.
I ended my chant and the rumbling became louder. I crouched down, bracing myself for any impact. The thing shakes and loosened its grip on Sander. Sander dropped through the tentacled thing and landed on the concrete floor. Its tentacles stiffened up and it seemed to be pulled through the floor, flickering and fading in the room. The tentacles then are pulled through the floor and I heard an unearthly peal, loud enough to make me wobble.
I stood up. Whatever it was gone. It smells awful, like all the landfills of the world, and there is some green-yellow ichor on the wall, but it is over. The crude circle remained, and I dare not smudge it. I can see Sander's body, still covered in goo and bruised purple and yellow all over. I swear some bones were broken there. I didn't want to tamper with evidence, so I went to look for other things, clues to what happened.
I saw the infamous Dunwich Way to Fun and Profit on a rickety card table, opened up to a page and splattered with the same gray goo that covered Sander. I wobbled again, and I grabbed a laundry basket to preserve my equilibrium. I ignored the blather and focused right on the Aklo inscriptions. To really get the language, I would have to be initiated into some family traditions no Wiccan would want to encounter. By accident, though, I know some key words. I recognized one Aklo sign for 'conception' and shuddered. I read the Dr. Armitage's notes on the Dunwich incident of 1928, and he stated he never knew how 'Wizard' Whateley ever conceived the awful twins who were the catalysts for 'the Dunwich horror.' I think I found one, but not the only, component of their conception on Earth.
I glanced away from the book and back to the body. He went through rigor mortis, which explained the brown and white stains on the floor and his erection. Otherwise, I was calm, almost clinical. I just need to look over the damage, I thought.
Just then, I looked at his face, noticing the broken teeth and gray goo all over. I looked closer; what I saw set me tumbling over the laundry basket when the uncle and Carrie came down with the police.
"I would have called them earlier, but all that goddamn droning and rumbling made it hard to get heard. I was using a neighbor's phone when we all heard this screeching and rolling and I wondered if you or Sander were OK." The uncle was panting and shaking, making me think now that he was even more scared for not knowing what was going on. He then glanced at the floor and turned away. "Someone cover him up," he yelled, "give him some dignity." I swore I heard sobbing.
The police covered Sander's body with a sheet and pumped Carrie and me for the tale. Being I was sprawled flat on the floor in the middle of clothing, I couldn't think of a good lie, so I gave them a half-truth. I told them I was going to talk to Sander about returning the book without involving the police, but then he released some noxious substance and I hallucinated. Carrie told her tale of the floating book, but wasn't sure why it was floating. Police felt that I was in the right place and the wrong time and not connected to Sander's death. "The hallucinations may have made it hard for me to save him," I murmured.
The thin green book, the cause of all that trouble, was damaged and placed into the evidence locker. I put down the recommended price for a damaged book, but no one seems in a hurry to replace it. Sander's uncle quietly cremated him cleared the basement. For adding and abating a theft, Carrie was put on probation by the police and had her Internet privileges suspended by her parents. However, she wrote to me in an actual paper letter after getting my address, her parents signed her up with a Lutheran youth group and making some genuine and decent friends. It's over for all of them.
You would think it would be over for me. I am still stacking and still being a grad student. Most nights, though, I spend awake and shaken. When I wasn't bolting awake from the night terrors, I was drinking any alcohol I could find and watching Hellraiser. Hey, I need the laugh.
I must tell you what shook me out of my jaded state. It was not his naked body entwined with the appendages of a terrifying little piece of chaos that drove me to this. It was because I took a good look at Sander's face. It's his mouth I remember the most. Even bleeding from gum damage and filled with gray goo, he seemed like he was smiling wide, a parody of an open mouth smile. His face was relaxed and his eyes were wide with a twisted elation.
I try to tell myself that annoyed that it didn't have the proper vessel for the conception, the thing took what it could, even if it was Sander. Perhaps he figured that it would break Sander's mind. But what did Sander really think? Could the grin be the shocked face frozen in rigor mortis? Could he have enjoyed the abuse the thing was giving him? Is he not as naïve about the darker magics as he seemed and wanted that thing as the only release he could allow himself? What that incantation was said to be for, I did not know. The book did seem to have a pull on him, enough to break the eighth commandment. What did it say to him? Did the book promise him all the beautiful women he wanted? Was that it? Was he promised his hearts' desire by the deceptive and malevolent book? Deceptive because it knew his heart's desire better than he did, but never told him.
I do not know. I know this: he met his fear and it wasn't all what he expected.
Next: revising an old story.
