The Dark Rites of Cthulhu Page 13

  A week after the burial, the apartment wasn’t right. I’d gone through all of her belongings, looking for a note or a clue, anything to tell me why she would do that to herself. What possible reason could such a young beautiful girl have to do that? Despite everything, I still had that brief blurred image stamped in my mind of her last thought. She was trying to communicate something to me.

  If it was a book, it wasn’t on the shelves or the coffee table. I’d already gone through the closet and her dresser. Feeling deflated, I flopped on the couch. My time in the apartment was limited, I needed to move and escape her memory. Then I saw them sitting in the china cabinet, a brief reflection of the Sun streaming in through the window. Her car keys.

  The green Toyota was still in the parking lot. Her nephew was coming to pick it up, it was going to be his first car. It’s a shame he had to get it this way. I walked around the back of the car trying to not look inside at the faded green lei around the mirror or the curled photos taped to the dash.

  I opened the trunk not knowing what to expect. It was empty except for a towel wrapped bundle in the middle. It seemed to glow in the dusky haze of the compartment. I reached for it, and pulled my hand back. What if it was something personal and treasured? Something for me? I still had the ring box in my pocket.

  I picked up the bundle, the towels were hot from the Sun bearing down on the car. There was another flash, another blinding moment of searing pain, then orgasmic relief as the flash of an image faded into memory. I shook my head and went inside.

  I stared at the bundle on the table as I slid my keys off the ring, the kid didn’t need keys to the apartment or my car. I clutched each piece of metal in my hand to the point of being painful. I tossed the key ring on the table and put the other keys back in the cabinet, giving the bundle on the table a wide berth. I poured a scotch and then sat down across from it.

  A low level vibration emanated from it, an almost inviting buzz. I smiled and sipped my drink. “You went off and got that box of sex toys, finally.” I reached for the bundle. The towels were stone cold, the vibration stopped with the closeness of my hand. I unwrapped the top layer and let the towel fall to the floor.

  A shudder ripped through my body, remembering the puddle of blood that had been there over a week ago. The second towel slipped off just as easily. This time it brought no reactions. An ancient book had been nestled within the towels. No name on the spine, no writing on the yellowed cover. The edges of the paper looked old and fragile. The vibration resumed, low and pleasing, when it was free.

  I stared at it for a few minutes. Flashes of symbols, alight with energies, played across my mind. I leaned back in the chair when it ended. I knew why Jessie had got the book, if it made me feel this good. The thought of my dead girlfriend brought reality screaming back. I covered it with the towels and took my drink to the couch.

  Her nephew came without much fanfare or conversation; we exchanged pleasantries and condolences, cold and practiced. After I handed him the keys, he was gone moments later. And I was alone again, with the book. There had to be a valid reason why she had this thing that gave off a slight miasmic haze when the light was direct on it.

  I found Jessie’s laptop under the couch where she always kept it, in case the place got broken into. “What were you doing with this?” I went through the desktop and the personal files. There were financial spreadsheets and a bucket list. At the end of the bucket list in underscored text become immortal with a smiley face after it. I sighed and closed the document.

  “What the fuck did she want with you?” I asked the book. I was knocked back from the answer. It showed horrible and wonderful things, ceremonies and ritualistic sacrifice, cultists roaming the oceanfront during the high tide with torches bleeding themselves as they walked. The last bit of the answer was Jessie sitting at the table with the green-blue shimmer from the book, typing maniacally into the laptop.

  “Stupid question, Dan. She wanted to be immortal.” I looked around the apartment for the voice. I was alone, windows and door closed, air conditioning humming in the background.

  “She found me in a very unsavory place, Dan. Jessie told you she was going on a business trip.”

  “There’s no business trips for the hospital unless it’s a nursing conference.”

  “Good catch, but a little too late.” I looked around again, convinced somehow it was all just an inner dialogue.

  “Where did she go?”

  “You should also be asking yourself, what did she do? Remember, her walking with a limp when she came home. No sex for weeks, said she pulled something in her lady parts at the gym.”

  “But the membership had expired.”

  “She laid down and opened her body, physically and psychologically for days, lying prone while body after body assaulted and invaded her. She bled, Dan. Bled and cried and screamed.”

  I looked at the book, my eyes rimmed with anger and hurt. Fear and rage surged through me. I wanted to pick it up and lob it out into the parking lot. Let some skater kid find it and be done with the horrible thing.

  “Now you see.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You, your soul, and to make you happy again. I want to help you get something back. And all you need to do, is gather some items and bleed a little. I can bring her back for you, Dan. Don’t you want that? To have your girl back?”

  “You did it.” I said. “You put that image in my head. Not Jessie.” Rage gave way to pain and grief.

  “She was dead when you found her. If you had come down for coffee before your shower, you probably could have stopped me.” I raised my eyes at the change. Me versus I. The voice was softer, more feminine. It was talking to me in Jessie’s voice.

  “Don’t you want me back, sweetie? We can be together again. I’m in so much pain.” I pictured her again, blonde hair matted with blood, facedown at the table with nothing: no warning, no signs, not even something scrawled on a paper towel begging for forgiveness.

  “Jessie was strong and smart. She never would have listened to you. You tricked her. Promised her something.”

  “Life is made of blood. I wasted mine. Don’t waste yours, Dan.”

  “You killed her and stop sounding like her!” I felt my throat constrict as my voice raised. Was this hysterics? Was it frenzy, or was talking to this damned book some way to heal the hurt, make the pain go away? The grieving process was horseshit and, in a couple of days, I would be expected back at my job, surrounded by everything and everyone that reminded me of Jessie, walking the corridors while they whispered behind my back.

  I dry swallowed and got up from the couch. I poured two glasses of scotch, one for me and one for the book. I kept the bottle close to me. When this fit of insanity was over I was going to need the warming brown liquid to sooth me into unconsciousness.

  I had to imagine what I looked like sitting there, drink in one hand, bottle next to me, staring at this book with the blue green haze. Like a child holding a flashlight with a blue bulb under his chin, making scary faces and casting long deep shadows over my eyes and cheeks. I finished the drink and continued to stare at the book.

  The reds and golds of sunset spread like a quilt across my apartment through the sliders. For a moment it was tranquil, the eye of the storm. I was getting ready for whatever fresh illusion my mind was going to throw at me. Is this what going crazy felt like? Hearing voices? Conversations with inanimate objects? Having those voices change in mid sentence?

  “What do you say, Dan? Want to fulfill my dreams? Make me immortal?”

  “You’re dead!”

  “Not entirely.” I ran my fingers over the book’s cover, feeling the dry, rough leather. There was excitement to it. Just brushing against the hide made me hard. I reached for the bottle while imagining it was Jessie’s skin I was caressing, the curves of her breasts and soft supple skin on her thighs.

  “What do I do?”

  “You can bring me back. Make me whole again.” Images of symbol
s flashed through my mind, I fell into a chair, feeling each one as a sexual assault on my mind. “If you’re serious, only death and blood can bring life. I’ll be back, immortal and yours forever.” There was something twisting around in my brain, the symbols were still flashing in the darkness of my mind, but in between were glimpses of horrific pain and endless dark miles in sleep and travel.

  “We need my blood, Dan.”

  “I’ll dig up your body. I’ll do anything.”

  “Find it, we’ll talk some more.” I let my fingers roam across the book for a moment longer and then the assault stopped abruptly. My head cleared, it felt like someone had been rooting around my skull with a screwdriver, but I had to get focused for Jessie’s sake. We were going to be together again. I took the ring box out of my pocket and set it on the table. When she came back to me, I’d propose before anything happened.

  “Find her blood.” Of all the things in the world. Where was I going to get my dead girlfriend’s blood? I ripped through the apartment. The hamper was empty and most of her clothes gone and donated to Good Will. I checked the bathroom trash for an old band-aid, even an old tampon. There was nothing. I’d scoured this place clean and the cleanup crew did a good job, too. “The cleanup crew.”

  Somewhere in the city there was a medical waste bag with my dead girlfriend’s dried blood on rags, mop heads, swabs and more. Where to start? I did another lap around the apartment. It had been too long since her death. Or had it?

  “The book didn’t say how I needed it, how much do I need?” I heard the madness in my voice and raced outside to the dumpster. There was still a chance to save her. My footfalls slapped echoes off the cooling pavement. The Sun was in its final stages of hiding. I ran around the side of the building to the access road behind. There was a shed of sorts, with chain link walls and a wooden roof. I opened the gates, threw open the black plastic lid on the dumpster and started fishing.

  It wouldn’t be near the top, it had been too long. I wondered if any of my neighbors noticed the crazed man digging through their trash. I went deeper, leaned in over the side until I was inside tossing bags over my shoulder not caring where they landed.

  I looked out towards the road at the roar of a diesel engine. The trash truck was turning into the complex. I reached out for another bag, feeling the rumble of the approaching truck. In the lights from the building I saw my prize. Pressed against the side of a bag, making it near transparent, was a can of the soda I drank. I grabbed the bag, flopped over the side of the dumpster, and ran.

  Bits of trash and papers trailed as I sped off, doing a complete circle of the building. I left the sliders to the apartment open, I hopped up on the small deck and ran inside, sliding the glass doors shut behind me. I tore the bag open and spilled the contents on the floor. The smell of rotten food hit me immediately. I gagged and forced back bile, sifting through the refuse on the floor.

  At the bottom of the wrecked trash bag, was what I was looking for. There was a dish towel, under the breakfast she’d been preparing, soaked through and still slightly damp with her blood. I ran to the kitchen for a plastic zipper bag and stuffed the towel in it.

  “Now what? Come on, book, tell me!”

  “Now we need the next ingredient, Dan.”

  “Tell me you love me. That you need me.” I barely recognized my own voice from the hysteria and desperation. “Tell me.”

  “I need you, Dan.” A sense of calm and pleasure washed over me as I stood there in the trash scattered on the floor.” I need you to get me tears of the grieving.”

  “What does that mean? My tears? Your parents?”

  “You need to figure that out. Best hurry.”

  I grabbed the ring box and opened, looked at the sparkling gold band and faceted diamond. Nothing. I shook it free and held it. Nothing. I raced upstairs to the bedroom and got the photo album, the same one that had been on display at the funeral. I went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table. The glow from the book seemed weaker. The ghost flames were smaller. It was getting weaker, she was getting weaker.

  I leafed through the album. Almost at first sight of the pictures I felt the tears welling. I ran from the table to the cupboard and got a shot glass, it was the only thing I had to store tears in. I’d spent three days choosing the photos while the funeral directors worked on the tear in her throat trying to see if they could conceal it enough for an open casket funeral. In the end, they couldn’t. Even with a scarf part of the wound showed, no matter how tight the stitching. Instead we covered the casket with photographs and personal mementos.

  I flipped through the pages feeling the emotions churn inside until the first tear slipped free. What was I doing? Listening to a “book?” Had I really slipped that far? I was imagining things. That had to be the only explanation.

  “Have faith, Dan.” I turned the pages until I felt the cool trickle of wetness. The tears slipped silently into the shot glass. The more photos I looked at, the faster the glass filled. I turned to the last page. It was a picture of us on the Jurassic Park ride at Universal, Florida, our first real trip together that lasted longer than a weekend. That trip I decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Another symbol flashed through my mind, followed by another, feeling like gunshots ripping through my skull.

  I fumbled the shot glass, catching it before it fell, and set it down. When I touched my wet cheeks, my fingers came back bloody. I had no idea what the symbols meant. They had to have some greater reason. They were the key to bringing back my girl.

  “Take me, the towel and the tears someplace where there’s room to walk. And bring something sharp.”

  The parking lot was too open, too many lights and witnesses. There was a school and shopping mall all in walking distance of the building, all too public. I walked around to the back of the building. The trash men had cleaned up the mess and left an angry note taped to the gates. I set the book down on a milk crate and stood there like a manic fool holding a bloody towel, a shot glass and a kitchen knife.

  “Pour the tears into the bag, baby, we’re so close.” The soft purr of her voice sent chills through me. Goose flesh erupted up and down my arms. That purr commanded so much power. I opened the bag, the smell of coppery sweetness assailed me. Some of the remaining blood in the towel had seeped out. It looked like the bottom of a ground beef tray from the store.

  “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Casablanca had been our movie, one of our regular date night DVDs of choice to watch. It was timeless, like Jessie, and like we were about to become. I lifted the glass so the tears could trickle in the bag. There was a chorus of voices in my mind, singing and chanting, I didn’t understand a word of it. It continued to grow in volume until I thought I wouldn’t stand it. I felt dampness on my cheeks again. Was I crying? I didn’t dare wipe it away.

  The tears turned luminous as they slipped from the glass into the bag. When I thought the glass was empty, the fluid kept flowing, seemingly endless into the bag. I blinked and dry swallowed. The chorus in my mind stopped. When the glass was empty and the last drop fell, I let it slip from my hand to shatter on the pavement.

  The bag was heavy in my grip, the blood and tears swirled together in a luminescent kaleidoscope of colors and tiny lights. It looked like the posters of constellations I hung on my walls as a kid. The lights and colors churned. More images, more flashes of pain. I knew what this meant. I dipped my fingers into the bag, the “liquid” was ethereal and warm, and tendrils tickled my fingertips. I pulled my hand out and drew the symbols, etched like glowing tattoos in my brain, onto the ground. They were flawless.

  “You’re doing so good, Dan. Soon we’ll be together forever.”

  “What do I do now?” In the movies and books you needed a body, a host for whatever came out at the end of the spell. Would my girl have to claw her way out of the ground at the cemetery and wander the streets covered in dirt and grass until she found me? Or would she just appear, like a ghost and coalesce into her old self?


  Another symbol, another rifle shot through me. This time there was only one; one final rune blazing through me, searing my nerves and mocking my sanity.

  “Draw it, make it big. One more task, baby.” Her voice had a new artificial tone to it, metallic and fake. I reached into the bag, still full and took the towel out. I squeezed a little out as cars raced by on the road. I carried the bag with me, and drew the symbol made of blood and starlight onto the pavement. When I was done, the bag was empty and the towel dry. Blood trickled from my nose and ears. It was too much.

  “Jessie, are you sure. Is this the way?”

  “It’s the only way, Dan. You have to do this for me, for us.” I gave up, surrendered to the voice of what I prayed at the end of this ordeal was my girl. I looked at my handiwork on the ground. The rune was massive at least twelve feet long and seven across, with intoxicating twists and turns and impossible angles that seemed to fold in upon themselves.

  “Walk the path, Dan. Don’t veer off and don’t stumble. If you fall from it, you’ll be lost forever and I will never be able to return.”

  “I can’t do that!” A faint hint of madness tainted my words.

  “Remember, only death brings life. And Blood is the source of life.” I looked over at the book, the ghost flames ablaze across the cover. Next to it on the milk crate was the knife. I nodded to no one in particular and grabbed the knife. I made a cut from wrist to elbow on each arm. I couldn’t cut my legs, I’d never be able to finish.

  The first step onto the glowing rune, the path I had to follow, was the worst pain I’d ever felt. It was like having the bottoms of my feet seared and the skin flayed off. There was resistance I had to fight against, like walking through powerful winds. The second step was easier. I heard the knife clatter to the pavement as I released it. Blood flowed down my arms.