The book
was old and tattered, the cover worn and edges curling. My sister had found it
in a second-hand bookshop, one of the dark and dingy places in the lanes behind
the market, where the piles of volumes rise almost to the ceiling and old men
with thick bifocals read newspapers in shafts of dusty sunlight. She bought it
on a whim, because she had rummaged about for an hour and wanted to have
something to show for the effort.
So she just picked it up while walking out,
and got it for almost nothing at all. And only when halfway home did she open
it to see what it was about.
My sister was like that.
“Garbage,” I said, when she showed it to me
later. “Just rubbish, is what it is.”
“Still, it’s interesting,” she said,
flipping through the yellowed old pages. “I can’t even understand half the
stuff that’s in here, but some of it’s pretty far-out.”
My sister liked using that kind of slang as
well.
“Spells for summoning demons and ghosts?” I
asked. “Don’t be ridiculous. Demons and ghosts don’t exist.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s fun, isn’t it? Should we try one and
see?”
“You’re daft,” I said, and pointed at the
page she was looking at. “Look at that one, for instance. You’d need, let’s
see, a fresh human skull and a virgin’s blood. I’m not about to donate my skull,
and as for virgins...”
“Not all of them are that complicated,” she
interrupted. “There’s one I saw which is much simpler. Just needs red and black
cloth, sulphur, camphor, candles, and a few other odds and ends.” She turned
back a few pages and showed it to me. “There, we can easily get all that.”
“Says it’s highly dangerous, and one
shouldn’t do it unless one’s an adept,” I pointed out. “It summons the demon Rouhbe...Rouhbegha...anyway,
he’s from the Seventh Circle of Hell, it says.” I pointed at an illustration,
all horns and claws, spines and teeth. “Handsome, isn’t he? Wonder why anyone
would ever want to summon him.”
“Shouldn’t matter, should it?” she replied,
grinning. “Since ghosts and demons don’t exist? Isn’t that what you were
saying?”
I looked at the illustration again. My eyes
literally could not make sense of the thing depicted there, to sort out the
long sharp spines from the huge, hooked claws, the shaggy pelt from the curling
tail. But the eyes were clear enough, two pools of absolute black below the
heavy, curved horns. And the mouth, with its clubbed, thorny tongue, pressing
between its sets of needle-teeth.
It was horrible, and it was terrifying, and
I wondered what diseased imagination had conjured it up from the depths of the
subconscious mind.
“It’s all nonsense,” I declared. “I’m not doing
this.”
So in the evening we did it anyway. My
sister was like that.
It did feel ridiculous, sitting across the
little table, holding hands and trying not to choke on the fumes of burning
camphor, while taking turns to read aloud words from the book lying open
between us, illuminated faintly by the flickering candlelight. After a while we
finished reading, and waited, holding hands.
“I’m getting tired of this,” I confessed.
“When is this demon supposed to turn up anyway?”
“We might not have read all the words
accurately,” she said. “Some of them are pretty hard to pronounce.”
“Well, I can’t sit here much longer,” I
said. “This camphor is making my head ache.”
“We can’t give up so easily,” she said. “Take
a walk on the balcony, then come back, and I’ll go out. We’ll take turns.”
So I went for a turn on the balcony, which
was down a short passage from the little room in which we were holding the séance.
After the flickering candlelight in the room, all the better to summon demons
by, the electric lights of neighbouring buildings looked impossibly bright,
dazzling. From here, ten floors up, the noise of traffic on the street below was
a hardly audible rumble, and the headlights looked like earthbound, swiftly
moving stars.
I took a deep breath, leaning over the
balustrade, and felt the tension ooze out of my muscles. Only now did I
suddenly realise that I’d been tense. It was ridiculous, stupid, and
embarrassing. Why on earth should I be tense of something that didn’t even
exist? I felt a little angry at myself, and at the same time filled with relief
and laughter.
Feeling much better, I wanted to stand
there for a while longer and breathe, but I heard my sister calling my name.
She could get really impatient, but it had been a while since I’d been standing
on the balcony, so I reluctantly turned to go back inside.
I was half-way down the passage when I felt
a cold wind blow past me. It blew for only an instant, a wind so cold that I
flinched, and it was past so quickly I couldn’t even be quite sure I’d felt it
at all. Shrugging, I turned the corner and entered the living room, already
beginning an apology to my sister for taking so long.
She wasn’t there.
Now the living room isn’t large, and though
it’s fairly cluttered, there’s nowhere someone can hide. Nor is there any other
door but the one into the passage, and the window’s got a safety grille on it,
and in any case was closed for the séance. And I returned far too quickly after
hearing my sister call to miss seeing her if she’d gone down the passage – and certainly
she hadn’t come up it towards me.
I fumbled for the light switch. It did not
come on.
I was still staring stupidly around the
room when I heard a sound behind me...
How can I explain the sensation in my spine
when I heard it? The unmistakable clicking of huge claws on the floor of the
passage, coming from the direction of the
balcony where I’d been standing only moments before?
And how shall I describe the laugh that
sounded from the passage, a low, chuckling laugh that did not sound as though
it could ever have emerged from a human throat? With the best will in the
world, I can’t. I will not try.
It’s there now, just past the door, and
coming closer. I can hear its claws clicking, the laugh getting louder, rising
in pitch, from a chuckle to a giggle. In a moment or two, it will come round
the corner and enter the room, and I will see it. I do not want to see it.
I’m afraid.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2013
Cool! The perspective at the end is Lovecraftian without seeming corny Lovecraftian - which is is to say, it doesn't sound like something from the 19th century, I guess.
ReplyDeleteYou have a much wider assortment of monsters in your stories than i do. My problem is that i can't seem to work many into a format that's supposed to be quasi-biographical.
I'll work on it, though...