Rise of Aleister

CHAPTER 1

“No, Paige, the red candle goes in that corner! Why do I feel like I’m talking to myself here?!” Craig whined, ringing his pudgy hands together before pushing his glasses back up his pudgy face. At 16, he was already dumpy, short hair sticking out in seventeen different directions, his sallow skin pockmarked with old and new acne scars. Paige, on the other hand, was a study in extremes, balancing out the sweaty teenager’s neuroticism with cool detachment, a look of almost comical long-suffering crossing her features as she rolled her eyes, moving the candle the scant few centimeters necessary to defuse Craig’s agitation. Running her fingers through neon green hair, the young girl stood, the piercings in her nose and ears catching the glow of candlelight. “Anything else, sahib?” she spat at him, all of her animosity toward an entire gender buried in those three words. “Easy, Paige.” Everett Hall stepped out of the shadows on the other side of the sigil on the floor, carrying a container of partially congealed cat’s blood and a paint brush. “You wouldn’t want our resident expert to start having fits and cutting himself, would you?” This last was said with just a hint of irony, the tall eighteen year old’s eyes shifting to slightly to a far corner of the room, gleaming maliciously under the dyed black hair that draped across his face. With pale skin and black lipstick, the eerily skinny teen looked uncomfortably like a walking corpse, and his personality wasn’t much better. The object of his attention, Brandon Jackson, lifted one arm, flipping the older boy the middle finger. As he did so, the frayed sleeve on his dark hoodie pulled back, showing a crosshatch of very fine lines, telltale signs of a troubled youth spent at the bad end of a straight razor. Chrissy Franklin, looking like a cross between a drug addict and a model for a Halloween costume advertisement, stepped out from behind Brandon’s right shoulder, her purple lips twisted into a grimace of dislike. “Back off, asshole. Brandon hasn’t done anything to you.” Everett laughed, his crooked yellow teeth showing sickly in the candlelight. “Precisely! What has that walking suicide watch done for anyone here?” Turning, Everett finished the sigil on the floor, an odd goat’s head inside of an inverted pentagram. “Anything else you need, Dough Boy?” Everett’s gaze crossed to Craig, and the nervously pacing teen jerked slightly at the animosity in his older compatriot’s voice. “…n..no. No. We’re good here. We just need to gather the rest of the ingredients, and we can begin.”

The group of five settled around the points of the pentagram, each carrying a knife made from chicken bone, and begin to chant. As one, they pierced their palms, allowing the blood to drip into specially prepared urns at their feet. The air around them took on a heavier ambience, laden with a chilling hostility, and an odd sulfurous smoke boiled from the containers at their feet, coalescing in an ever shrinking spiral toward the center of the sigil, the five different patterns each adding a different color and reek. The eldritch energy crackled in the air, becoming almost a living thing, as each of the teens took a knee beside, yet outside, the outer circle of the blood pattern. Unbeknownst the other four, as Craig took a knee his bone knife lightly scraped the dried blood, a hairline fracture in the pattern before him. The pudgy teen palmed the knife quickly, a sheen of malicious intelligence shining out for one moment from the nervously sweating face. Rising to his feet, Craig lifted his hands as the power gathered in the center, and with one last shout in an arcane language long dead, he swung his fleshy arms wide to his sides, summoning the energy to himself. Looks of complete shock and hatred came from the other teens, and the others backpedaled quickly, horror written in their eyes. Craig had disappeared in a roiling mass of smoke and flashing light, and the being that stood before them seemed made of smoke, bloodshot eyes panning the fear-frozen group. An oddly perverse smile crossed the pudgy teen’s face and a voice not even remotely his own issued from his mouth, an obvious British accent imbuing the words with an extra twinge of corruption. “Ah… America. Land of decadence and decay. What whim of fate brings me here…?” Paige, Everett, and Chrissy all leapt up, talking over each other, their fear a rich stink in the air. “Master Crowley, what an honor...” “My Lord Aleister, we have waited so long…” “Revered Master, we wish only to serve…” With a sneer of dismissive contempt, Craig-not Craig lifted one arm, three fingers splayed toward the three standing, and the shadows about his body coalesced into absurdly large bats, massive-jawed and fanged, winging into the teens and ripping their flesh even as they slammed them into the floor. Horrifically, a bat scratched and gouged it’s way into each of the teen’s mouths, causing them to choke and their bodies to buck in a vain effort to stop this atrocity. Eventually, the movements ceased, and the remaining bats returned to Craig’s body, molding themselves to him so as to seem like clothing from 1920’s England. With an oily chuckle of sick amusement, the being inside Craig turned to look at Brandon, who had remained kneeling. “Well, you’ve showed a bit more sense, my boy. What have you to say?” “Brandon’s hand lifted slowly from the front pocket of his sweater, holding out a gaudy ring with a stylized goat head relief. “Aleister Crowley, master of the dark arts, we unworthy have summoned you here with this, the Baphomet ring. Master, you left a drop of blood and a hair contained within, and with such a link, we were able to pull you from the pits of the Abyss.” Nodding with avarice, Crowley’s black arm lifted, and the ring shot to his right pinky finger of its own accord. “Well done, my son. Tis a pity you enjoyed the blade so much. I would have liked to keep you.” Brandon’s gaze shot up in abject terror, his mouth forming into a mewling circle, tears dashing from his eyes. Too late, he scrambled back on heels and elbows, trying to flee, when the hellbat horde swarmed over him, ripping him to shreds in seconds. “My true children were hungry…” Aleister turned, walking slowly for the door, a sardonic grin on his lips, and as he exited, the three other figures stood, bloodied and broken. None of Brandon’s former friends even glanced at the quivering pile of raw flesh, or met the gaze of the eyes that still rolled in lidless sockets. They followed their master out into the dark night.

Chapter 2

Only two hours ago Logan had been trapped in a barn outside of the tiny town of Elk Mountain, a smoking .357 Ruger Blackhawk in one hand, an unwieldy black club clenched in the white-knuckled fist of the other, gasping for air as blood trickled from a shallow wound on his forehead and a slightly deeper cut across the bridge of his nose. With a look of utter disgust, he had pulled the tiny stone-tipped arrows from his jacket, having to wrench at a few of the ones that had buried deeper. “Goddamn nimerigar…” he grunted, before dropping the war club and flicking his drop phone open. “Jim? Yeah, it’s me. Thanks for the tip on the vest. Worked like a charm. Soon as that thing shattered the little bastards turned right around on him.” The hunter’s brow furrowed a bit at the tinny chatter coming through the tiny device. “Trust me, you don’t wanna know. There were only pieces left, but he was still screaming when they dragged him back into the earth.” Slowly, the hunter got to his feet, sinking the still hot Ruger back into the tie-down holster on his left thigh, and settling the ball of the club over his shoulder. “Yeah, man. Let me know if anything else crops up. Meantime, it’s looking ‘bout like beer thirty.” Limping slightly, the tired man headed outside, following the dirt road away from the recent scene of bloodshed. “Washington? Why in all seven hells would I wanna go to that rainy dump?!” Logan stopped, a look of concern dropping over his face like a worn battle mask. “Alright, Jim, alright. Calm down. I’m on my way. Even hauling with No-DoZ and Mountain Dew, it’d take about 18 hours. Keep your feathers on.” A slight grin creased his dirty face as he hung up. Jim Walking Hawk was a good friend and better information hound, but it was fun to twist his Native heritage now and then, just to keep the bookworm on his toes.

It felt like sand had been poured into his eye sockets with a shovel. No amount of rubbing or blinking could remove the gritty, raw feeling, as if his eyelids were made of sandpaper. The throaty roar of the 455 cubic inch motor felt like the living pulse of some monster predator, reverberating through the pedals and seat to his average stocky frame, lulling the aches and pains of his body. Glancing down, the lone driver studied the damage to the 1970’s biker jacket. Mostly cosmetic, but in a couple of spots the thick leather had given way, revealing the shining links of tightly woven chainmail hidden within. Further down, odd stains showed on the legs of his denim jeans, a viscous ichor that still hadn’t dried despite the almost midday heat, and it was only getting hotter. Southern Wyoming in July was not particularly forgiving to either man or machine. Stained and torn cowboy boots shifted slightly on the pedal, and with a growl almost of frustration, the ’69 Pontiac GTO slowed, pulling off to the side of the road. The driver’s side door opened with a slight whine, the idling car sounding almost like a high-performance water vessel at dock, and with a muffled groan, he stepped out from the car, eyes gimlet in the piercing, dust-filled sunlight. The semi-bleached road signs pointed out Highway 287, with two miles to go to reach Muddy Gap. Cracking a stiff neck, Logan turned slightly, hazel eyes reddened from exhaustion, middle-length straight brown hair shifting slightly in the sluggish breeze. “Sorry, Jimbo. If this child don’t get some shut-eye, they’re gonna be scraping me and Old Glory here off the side of a boulder. I’m not big on pulling a James Dean.” The hunter moved to the trunk, pulling a pup tent and a camp stove from the back, returning for two MRE’s and a bedroll. When he turned the keys and pulled them from the ignition, the ensuing desert silence was deafening.

Chapter 3

The rain had lessened to a misty drizzle, with the occasional fat droplet that always seemed to hit on the back of the neck. Despite the gap-filled cover of the trees overhead and the burning rubbish barrels, the six homeless men crouching in the two orange glows felt a chill that seemed to settle in their bones, making joints and old scars ache, and the many layers of old hand-off clothing did nothing to lessen the effect. Several times throughout the evening a large brown paper bundle had been passed around, each man taking a slug of the rot-gut liquor, either fortifying themselves against the cold or against their own inner demons. All of them looked to each other and the bottle, however, as shadowed figures appeared, almost as if from thin air, in their midst, cloaked in smoke and ill intent. A sense of malevolence wafted from the strangers, causing a primal reaction of cold-washed fear to descend into the vagabonds’ innards. The unnamed dread found a swift peak to terror when the strangers’ garments shifted unnaturally, before exploding out into the middle of the group of hobos, larger-than-life bats made of smoke and ash. The screams shattered the still peace in Black Jack Creek, rebounding off of uncaring concrete. At the last, a dry chuckle slithered through the night, and peace descended once more.

With a start, Logan jerked upright, the Blackhawk instantly cocked and pointed to the entry of the tent. Narrowed eyes raced over the walls and ceiling, and the muscles along the hunter’s jaw ticked out a steady staccato, the only evidence of how wired he was. Slowly, the nightmare’s grip released from his mind, and the pistol lowered steadily, the hammer descending under one cautious thumb. “I love nightmares at dawn…” Logan dragged a dirty calloused hand across his forehead and stubbled jaw, wincing slightly as he passed the fresh cuts on his face. “Better than goddamn coffee.” Cracking a stiffened neck, the hunter rose into a crouch, pulling the zippered entry open, and stepped out into the clean light of a brand new day. A series of surprisingly loud pops and snaps accompanied his stretch, and a slight groan escaped his lips as he lowered his arms. “One time, just once, I’d like to stake out without feeling like I’ve been worked over by an octopus with crowbars and a grudge.” Grumbling further under his breath, the hunter broke down the tent, a simple enough task, and loaded it back into the GTO. Sweeping the makeshift campsite with a practiced eye, the hunter made sure no sign of his presence remained except the odd boot print. The ’69 roared to life like an oversized half-starved jungle cat, and Logan was back on the road, teeth pulling at a piece of three-day old jerky.

Jim Walking Hawk frowned at the police scanner, even as his fingers danced over the keyboard. Red-eyed from lack of sleep, the Native American shook his head slightly, listening to the report being called in by officers on-scene. Charred trees and ferns, and enough blood to fill a garage sink splattered over a fifty-foot radius, yet no bodies had been found, and little signs of struggle were evident. Jim knew these men, knew them to be derelicts from a nearby tribe, and the loss of people he felt keenly. This fit the pattern that had started further north, in the tree-choked hills of Oak Harbor. Five teens had gone missing with only one body found, and only part of a body at that. Something about that case had made Jim’s hackles rise, setting off alarm bells in his head, but as the days had passed, more and more vagrants had been reported missing: Port Townshend, Chimacum, Poulsbo, Silverdale, and now in Port Orchard. No one knew the exact number of people missing, but the same pattern emerged every time. Jim had been a hunter in his youth, but a bullet to the knee had taken him out of the game. Despite this, the man’s instincts had never failed him. Not for the first time, Walking Hawk’s eyes tracked to the disposable phone sitting on the kitchen counter. “Where the hell are you, Logan…”