The Minotauress (30 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
Yet he'd seen none since they'd entered the house.
Perhaps upstairs...
The first bedroom he slipped into was obviously the one where Dicky had experienced his calamity. The flashlight revealed a bed chamber that went hand in hand with the rest of the house: a mini-museum of various archaic styles, save of course for the television sitting upon—the Writer winced—a genuine Robert Gillow half-table made of Brazilian rosewood and well over three hundred years old.
I wonder where Crafter gets all his money?
but then he laughed.
Probably a pact with the Devil.
I wonder where Crafter gets all his money?
but then he laughed.
Probably a pact with the Devil.
The room smelled funny: a meaty, musky scent that was close to foul. No woman in black paint lay on the bed, though the sheets and blankets on the finely crafted poster were disarrayed. Then he shined the flash down to the fabulous hand-woven carpet and was surprised to discover Dicky's aforementioned "goo."
It looked like black gelatin surrounded by another gel-like substance that was clear but milkily lined. The Writer was mystified. Alcohol or cerebral defect obviously accounted for the younger man's account of this woman's
ejaculating
after her intercourse with him. Nevertheless...
ejaculating
after her intercourse with him. Nevertheless...
What on earth could this substance be?
It lay in a gelatinous puddle, shimmering in the light.
Finally! A book!
Another sweep of the flash revealed a night-table with a small book on it. The Writer scanned the cover, intrigued: THE ACCOUNT OF THE INCUBI OF VASR MONASTERY BY THE REV. M. BARI. The spine crinkled when he opened to the copyright page.
London, 1787.
Another sweep of the flash revealed a night-table with a small book on it. The Writer scanned the cover, intrigued: THE ACCOUNT OF THE INCUBI OF VASR MONASTERY BY THE REV. M. BARI. The spine crinkled when he opened to the copyright page.
London, 1787.
"Incubi, huh?" the Writer mocked aloud.
Nevertheless he stuck the book in his back pocket. It was probably worth some money...
Nothing here except some crap on the floor, some... goo,
he deduced and turned to leave, but he stopped at the door as his light raked the carpet.
he deduced and turned to leave, but he stopped at the door as his light raked the carpet.
He shined it down and stared.
How peculiar...
The inchoate mass of black and clear gunk was now not so inchoate.
How did I miss that when I first looked?
It seemed to take on a configuration that he hadn't noted previously: something akin to a starfish shape, and the top "arm" possessed two small protrusions, like hooks.
How did I miss that when I first looked?
It seemed to take on a configuration that he hadn't noted previously: something akin to a starfish shape, and the top "arm" possessed two small protrusions, like hooks.
The Writer fixed his gaze.
All five arms slowly extended.
You know what?
the Writer posed to himself.
I don't think I'm seeing things. I think that slop is really moving,
and with that, he made his exit and hastily rejoined Balls and Dicky downstairs.
the Writer posed to himself.
I don't think I'm seeing things. I think that slop is really moving,
and with that, he made his exit and hastily rejoined Balls and Dicky downstairs.
"Well?" Balls demanded.
The Writer lit a cigarette. "There's good news and there's bad news. The good news is—there's no woman wearing black paint—"
"I done
told ya
she weren't there no more!" Dicky raged. "She disappeared after she cum'd all that spunk'n goo on the floor!"
told ya
she weren't there no more!" Dicky raged. "She disappeared after she cum'd all that spunk'n goo on the floor!"
The Writer looked more resolutely at Balls. "I'm in concurrence with, at least, the latter component of Dicky's statement."
Balls shot him a funky look. "Huh?"
"There is indeed an odd substance on the floor that no manner of speculation on my part can account for."
"I told ya!" Dicky cut in again. "It's my load all mixed up with some black shit in her cunt, and then it all squirted out while's I were watchin'."
"Shee-it," Balls snapped. "I don't know which one'a yawl's more fucked up in the head! Guess I gotta see fer myself!"
But before Balls could bound up the stairs, the Writer interjected, "Mr. Balls? It's my deduction that we can go up and down those stairs all night, and we won't find any answers to our questions. However, I have an inclination—er, I should say I have a hunch... that there is a more likely place in this house where we
will
find those answers."
will
find those answers."
Balls smirked his irritation. "Where?"
The Writer pointed. "The basement."
"The fuckin' place stinks. Why there?"
"Because, as I've said, I have an inclination."
Balls and Dicky paused. "All right," Balls said. "Let's go. Dicky—bring that dirty cum-dump and drag her ass down with us."
The Writer led the way, steeling himself against the rotten aroma coming up the cinderblock steps. Balls swore behind him, gagging. Dicky trudged down, too, with the still-unconscious Cora slung across his back.
The stench thickened once downstairs. The flashlights lit up circles of strange doors, tables, and—yes!—shelves of books. The Writer flicked his Bic to light numerous sconce-set candles, and then—
The low-ceilinged room was alive now in squirming light. Dicky, Balls, and the Writer all stared speechless at the same thing.
"No fuckin' wonder the joint stinks," Balls muttered.
"Jaysus Chrast!" Dicky exclaimed, and in his disconcertion actually dropped poor Cora on to the cement floor.
"This place looks more like a temple than a basement," the Writer noted, "and how appropriate... A
sacrificial
temple."
sacrificial
temple."
Three of the room's walls were ornamented by Doric pillars, however short, and between them were a total of six shoddy wood-plank doors hung within keystoned arches. But it was what hung in one of these arches that flagged their concern:
A naked woman's corpse.
Only the Writer dared to approach, to register details. A rive had been made from navel to throat, separating two flaccid breasts the color of oatmeal. A pair of surgical retractors remained in place on her chest, which forced the rive open, much like double doors, to expose the cardiac cavity. Said cavity was empty.
"Now
that's
what I call a ruckin'," Balls remarked with a crook in his voice.
that's
what I call a ruckin'," Balls remarked with a crook in his voice.
"Looks like someone... sacker-ficed her," Dicky contributed.
"Indeed, her heart's gone," the Writer told them, then shined his light on various areas about the room. "And by the looks of that crucible, that crematory, and that old book on tephramancy, I'd say she was sacrificed in
grand
style. Look. See these ashes?" The Writer gestured the smear of ashes over the door's stone transom. "Tephramancy is an occult science which utilizes the ashes of a sacrifice victim for a variety of dark arts, including incarnation."
grand
style. Look. See these ashes?" The Writer gestured the smear of ashes over the door's stone transom. "Tephramancy is an occult science which utilizes the ashes of a sacrifice victim for a variety of dark arts, including incarnation."
"You're talkin' more'a that satanic shit, like what Crafter's into, ain't'cha?" Balls needed clarification.
"Oh, yes. This man Crafter has quite a hobby."
Dicky fidgeted at the sight of the girl. "What's that big college word you just used?"
"Incarnation? It means ‘to make flesh,' in other words, Crafter solicited this tephramanic ritual to summon a netherwordly spirit or even... a demon."
Balls and Dicky stood silent.
The Writer lit another cigarette and made a closer inspection. The unfortunate woman had been hung on the door by means of a sharpened iron spike sunk directly through the hollow of her throat. Much blood was in evidence, naturally, running down her pallid body and cellulite-pocked legs, to pool at the floor. The blood was dry and browning. Her feet and lower legs were a murky blue. "I'd say she's been dead a day or two," the Writer estimated. "The decomposition of the body is not yet acute, and I'd also say... she's not the first to suffer such a fate in this room." Now his flashlight tracked along the floor. More splotches of dried blood existed before each of the six wood-plank doors in the bizarre room.
The Writer opened the door to which the girl had been impaled. There was nothing behind it except for crudely lain bricks.
"The fuck's that all about?" Balls asked. "If Crafter did all this devil's jazz to get a demon here, a hallway to hell's what should be behind that door, not just bricks, right?"
The Writer chuckled. "While the ritual is active, yes, but of course only in Crafter's mind. There are no real doorways to Hell or demons, Mr. Balls."
"Yeah?"
"Let's not get carried away here, gentlemen. Crafter is an occult fanatic. He
believes
himself to be a retainer for the Devil, by serving him in such ways. But the notion is actually no different from someone rubbing a rabbit's foot for good luck, or avoiding cracks on the sidewalk. It's
superstition.
Crafter is probably just delusional, and
thinks
he's summoning demons or whatever, but it's really just hoopla."
believes
himself to be a retainer for the Devil, by serving him in such ways. But the notion is actually no different from someone rubbing a rabbit's foot for good luck, or avoiding cracks on the sidewalk. It's
superstition.
Crafter is probably just delusional, and
thinks
he's summoning demons or whatever, but it's really just hoopla."
Dicky squinted.
"Hoopla?
"
"Hoopla?
"
"You know. Ballyhoo."
"What's ballyhoo?" Balls asked.
The Writer slumped. "It's
bullshit,
gentlemen! Occult science does not exist. It's not
functional.
Its supporters merely
believe
it is."
bullshit,
gentlemen! Occult science does not exist. It's not
functional.
Its supporters merely
believe
it is."
"Oh." Balls stroked his goatee.
"But if it's all bullshit," Dicky posed, "then you's mean the chick I'se fucked upstairs all painted black who dumped all that slop out her pussy...
wasn't
a demon?"
wasn't
a demon?"
"No, Mr. Dicky," the Writer insured. "She was a hallucination. The kariolytic fumes from this corpse made you and Cora see the woman and made me see that growing starfish shape upstairs. Or something along those lines. Let me make myself perfectly clear. Have you guys even heard of Emmanuel Kant?"
"No," Balls and Dicky answered in unison.
Ask a silly question...
The Writer thought of a way to dumb things down. "Kant was the greatest philosopher to ever live. He disproved every philosophy and in this disproval he thereby
proved
something else: that mankind must have been created by a higher being—God, in other words. He proved this with mathematical theorems. It's incontestible. The only entity that can possibly exist beyond man is God. There's no room for anything else, including the Devil, demons, Hell, etc. For God and the Devil to exist simultaneously, then human volition would have to be teleologic—and we know that this cannot be. It's all math."
The Writer thought of a way to dumb things down. "Kant was the greatest philosopher to ever live. He disproved every philosophy and in this disproval he thereby
proved
something else: that mankind must have been created by a higher being—God, in other words. He proved this with mathematical theorems. It's incontestible. The only entity that can possibly exist beyond man is God. There's no room for anything else, including the Devil, demons, Hell, etc. For God and the Devil to exist simultaneously, then human volition would have to be teleologic—and we know that this cannot be. It's all math."
Balls' eyes seemed mistrustful. "So God ain't nothin' but a bunch'a numbers?"
"In a sense, yes. He exists by means of a never-ending equation that created everything, and
God
is the beginning of the equation. Understand?"
God
is the beginning of the equation. Understand?"
"No," Balls and Dicky answered in unison.
The Writer sighed smoke. "Listen, just trust me. Crafter didn't bring any demons here—he merely
thinks
he did."
thinks
he did."
"Then what's that writin' on that little plate over the door, above the dead chick's head?" Balls pointed.
The Writer squinted. "Oh, I didn't see that." He shined his light right up.
And stared.
A tiny brass plate had been mounted in the keystone, and engraved upon it was were several Greek letters.
The Writer made a rare departure from his avoidance of profanity. "Holy shit... "
"What is it?" Balls urged, impatient.
"It's Greek... "
"You speak
Greek?
"
Greek?
"
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