Authors: Edward Lee
The Minotauress (32 page)
"Never heard of him."
"It's not a
him,
Mr. Dicky. It's a type of conditioned wood, and you may be intrigued when I explain what's written here. It tells of how wooden planks can be ritualistically conditioned by burying them in a graveyard of unconsecrated ground that served as the final resting place for condemned witches."
him,
Mr. Dicky. It's a type of conditioned wood, and you may be intrigued when I explain what's written here. It tells of how wooden planks can be ritualistically conditioned by burying them in a graveyard of unconsecrated ground that served as the final resting place for condemned witches."
Dicky's brain could almost be heard clicking. "The graveyard we seed outside! Lots of 'em were half dug into."
"Precisely. It's a solid bet that the wooden planks that Crafter used to make the six doors in this room are made of such wood. Each plank was buried over the graves for a total of 666 days; then they were nailed together and used to fashion the door-faces. This manuscript here is quite concise. Dee calls these doors a ‘Talismanic Traversion Bridle.'"
"Huh?"
"Think of it this way. Each door is a
magic
door, Mr. Dicky. They've been ritually charged with an occult power to close off the passage to a netherworldly domain—six such passages, I'd say. And when the proper ritual is enacted... that barrier—that
bridle
—comes down, and the door opens to a predesignated supernatural realm." Again the Writer's eyes gestured the corpse hanging by the spike through its neck. "Lowering this barrier, of course, must involve a
human
sacrifice. Before Crafter left on his trip, it's clear he engaged in such a task, and that poor girl was the fodder for the rite."
magic
door, Mr. Dicky. They've been ritually charged with an occult power to close off the passage to a netherworldly domain—six such passages, I'd say. And when the proper ritual is enacted... that barrier—that
bridle
—comes down, and the door opens to a predesignated supernatural realm." Again the Writer's eyes gestured the corpse hanging by the spike through its neck. "Lowering this barrier, of course, must involve a
human
sacrifice. Before Crafter left on his trip, it's clear he engaged in such a task, and that poor girl was the fodder for the rite."
Dicky whispered, eyes wide. "He opened that there door to some place full'a demons... "
"A place, yes. A realm, obviously one that's associated with the damned demonness known as Pasiphae. In defying Poseidon and falling in love with her own hellish offspring—the Minotaur—she was eternally condemned."
"So
that's
how the shiny black chick got here—through that door," Dicky figured.
that's
how the shiny black chick got here—through that door," Dicky figured.
"Well, Crafter
believes
that, yes. But I don't, and you shouldn't either. It's all part of his delusion—nonsense, ultimately. It is funny, though. We were astounded by how Crafter could leave a house full of treasures virtually unprotected. Perhaps he thought that summoning Pasiphae would serve as his alarm system... "
believes
that, yes. But I don't, and you shouldn't either. It's all part of his delusion—nonsense, ultimately. It is funny, though. We were astounded by how Crafter could leave a house full of treasures virtually unprotected. Perhaps he thought that summoning Pasiphae would serve as his alarm system... "
"All's right," Dicky insisted. "But let's just say that it
is
true, and that this Pasiphae gal come out that door when Crafter kilt the girl... What about these other doors? It say what they are in them papers?"
is
true, and that this Pasiphae gal come out that door when Crafter kilt the girl... What about these other doors? It say what they are in them papers?"
"Not in these papers, but in
this,
" and then the Writer held up a very old book with metal hinges and faded gold gilding. "The
Incarnologie Daemorium,
translated into English in 1839 by Rev. Montague Thomas Alexander in Wales. The author is quite a sinister chap who went by the name of Comte Michel Lemoine Willirmoz, who had been burned at the stake in St. Claude, France, in 1680 for black magic and molestation. He was reportedly a lithomancer, that is he practiced magic through stones. If you look carefully, the keystone of each door, just above each brass plate, has been set with various stones."
this,
" and then the Writer held up a very old book with metal hinges and faded gold gilding. "The
Incarnologie Daemorium,
translated into English in 1839 by Rev. Montague Thomas Alexander in Wales. The author is quite a sinister chap who went by the name of Comte Michel Lemoine Willirmoz, who had been burned at the stake in St. Claude, France, in 1680 for black magic and molestation. He was reportedly a lithomancer, that is he practiced magic through stones. If you look carefully, the keystone of each door, just above each brass plate, has been set with various stones."
Dicky peered and indeed noticed the tiny stone chips of myriad colors, affixed to each center block. "They diamonds'n rubies'n shit?"
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Dicky. They're only semi-precious stones, such as amethyst, onyx, galena, quartz—no monetary value but to a lithomancer, they're the source of his magic." Next the writer pointed to an odd smock-like garment hanging inside an opened armoire. It looked made of black sack cloth, yet the garment dazzled, for into its fabric had been stitched hundreds more semi-precious stones. "No doubt Crafter wore that tunic there during the rite... his sorcerer's surplice. All magicians and warlocks wore such cloaks when practicing their art."
"Dang. A magic jacket?"
"Precisely." The Writer turned back to the
Incarnologie Daemorium
.
"Willirmoz was black magic's most notorious sorcerer, and in this priceless grimoire, he specifically identifies each of the six supernatural domains he was able to supposedly access. Door One we already know: the domain of Pasiphae. Door Two accesses a creature from pre-Islamic folklore known as a
ghala
but what is better known as a ghoul. Door Three? The Lycanthrope, otherwise known as a werewolf. Door Four opens to the realm of the Nosferatu, or vampire. Door Five: the
Khmoc,
which is an Asian version of a zombie that predates voodoo by thousands of years. And Door Six reveals a creature I'm not familiar with, something called a Spermatogoyle, which, according to this book, hails from a region in Hell called the Flesh District." The Writer raised his brows over the thing's official name. "I have no idea what
that
could be, but I can hazard a guess that it's got something to do with semen."
Incarnologie Daemorium
.
"Willirmoz was black magic's most notorious sorcerer, and in this priceless grimoire, he specifically identifies each of the six supernatural domains he was able to supposedly access. Door One we already know: the domain of Pasiphae. Door Two accesses a creature from pre-Islamic folklore known as a
ghala
but what is better known as a ghoul. Door Three? The Lycanthrope, otherwise known as a werewolf. Door Four opens to the realm of the Nosferatu, or vampire. Door Five: the
Khmoc,
which is an Asian version of a zombie that predates voodoo by thousands of years. And Door Six reveals a creature I'm not familiar with, something called a Spermatogoyle, which, according to this book, hails from a region in Hell called the Flesh District." The Writer raised his brows over the thing's official name. "I have no idea what
that
could be, but I can hazard a guess that it's got something to do with semen."
Dicky jerked his gaze. "Ya mean, like, man-batter? Petersnot? Dick loogie?"
The Writer slumped. "Uh, yes. Dick loogie... "
Dicky scratched his overhanging beer belly, then cast the Writer a more suspicious expression. "How you know so much 'bout all this devil shit?"
"Only from a few history of metaphysics courses I took in college to accommodate my double major in Philosophy. It's really no different from any manner of folklore; we don't study it because we
believe
in it, we study it to analyze an aspect of our intellectual evolvement. Before mankind was smart enough to think rationally, we made up stories and superstitions to explain the things about our existence we didn't understand. It's all quite silly when you get right down to it. It makes the human race look like a bunch of buffoons."
believe
in it, we study it to analyze an aspect of our intellectual evolvement. Before mankind was smart enough to think rationally, we made up stories and superstitions to explain the things about our existence we didn't understand. It's all quite silly when you get right down to it. It makes the human race look like a bunch of buffoons."
"A bunch'a
balloons?
" Dicky questioned.
balloons?
" Dicky questioned.
"Never mind... "
A groan resounded from the corner. Cora was rousing. She blinked, shaking her head, and managed to hitch herself up to sit against the wall. "The hail? That mean fucker knock me out again?"
"Shore did, Cora," Dicky told her. "Balls don't like it when chicks talk too much."
"Fucker," she muttered, blinking out the rest of the stars. "And where is he anyway?"
"Upstairs, checkin' things out."
Only now did the malnourished prostitute notice the foul stench. "Aw, shit. Smells like—" and then she shrieked when she saw the dead woman hanging on the door.
Dicky and the Writer both ground their teeth and clapped their hands over their ears.
"What the hail is this? A horror dungeon're somethin'?"
"A modern equivalent, you could say," the Writer replied.
"What's goin'
on
down here?" she pleaded. "I can't stand this! Dicky, please! Cut my wrists loose!"
on
down here?" she pleaded. "I can't stand this! Dicky, please! Cut my wrists loose!"
Dicky hemmed and hawed. "Aw, shee-it, Cora. I cain't do that."
"Why!"
"Aw, ya know... Balls'd get a right pissed."
"Fuck him!" she spat. "Let me go! Ain't right fer you ta keep me tied up like this! And that stink is killin' me! Let's all get out'a here! Lemme go!"
"Just be patient, Cora. Balls'll let'cha go soon."
The girl squirmed where she sat, trying but failing to snap her bonds. Then she began to sob.
"She's harmless, Mr. Dicky," the Writer suggested. "It can't hurt to untie her."
"Naw. Balls'd pitch a fit, he would."
Now she was panting, "Dicky! Dicky! Lemme go and I'll'se let'cha fuck me... "
Dicky shuffled his feet. Aw, naw... "
"Look, look," and then Cora was cumbersomely pulling her shorts down from behind. "Just you take a look at my beautiful pussy and then you'll'se be
dyin'
ta fuck it!" and with that promise, she squirmed some more and managed to get the shorts down to mid-thigh. "Take a look at
that!
Ain't that just a scrumptious-lookin' cunt?"
dyin'
ta fuck it!" and with that promise, she squirmed some more and managed to get the shorts down to mid-thigh. "Take a look at
that!
Ain't that just a scrumptious-lookin' cunt?"
Dicky and the Writer both nearly howled at the sight.
"Dang, Cora, that's the blammed ugliest snatch I ever saw!" Dicky complained. "Looks like two dead rats pushed together. Don't be flashin' that shit."
"Well then... how's 'bout my ass?" she tried next. "You's kin fuck it ta high heaven! Take a look!" and then she rolled over and stuck her bare rump in the air.
This time Dicky and the Writer
did
howl. Cora's buttocks strained open, revealing an anus that looked more like a clot of steel wool... with a hole in it. Hair grew rampant in the rank cleft, tracing all the way up past her tail bone.
did
howl. Cora's buttocks strained open, revealing an anus that looked more like a clot of steel wool... with a hole in it. Hair grew rampant in the rank cleft, tracing all the way up past her tail bone.
Dicky yelled, "Fuck, girl! Pull them shorts back up or I'll kill ya! Ya done fucked up my sex drive fer a year!"
Cora collapsed to more sobs. The Writer sighed in relief, now that he didn't have to look at the ghastly cleft.
I'll bet she doesn't make very much as a prostitute... .
I'll bet she doesn't make very much as a prostitute... .
Cora bawled for several more minutes, hitching the shorts back up but eventually her eyes roved back to the pallid corpse on the door. She stared, her mouth falling open. "My fuckin' gosh—I
know
that bitch... "
know
that bitch... "
"Ya do?" Dicky said.
"Aw, yeah, I used ta see her a lot back when I were turnin' tricks up the truck stop. She kicked my ass one night 'cos I was low-ballin' truckers fer blowjobs... the
bitch.
"
bitch.
"
Dicky laughed. "So's she's a whore, too?"
The Writer looked closer this time. "Given the obvious heroin needlemarks and the LOVE DEPOSIT tattoo, it's probably safe to say that she's
not
a church organist."
not
a church organist."
"But what the fuck
happened
to the dirty skank?" Cora queried.
happened
to the dirty skank?" Cora queried.
Dicky was all too proud to explain. "A sorcerer
sacker-ficed
her to the Devil, so's he could open a doorway to places where demons hang out. That's where that black chick upstairs come from."
sacker-ficed
her to the Devil, so's he could open a doorway to places where demons hang out. That's where that black chick upstairs come from."
The Writer winced yet again. "Actually, Mr. Dicky, it's just superstitious nonsense of Crafter's. No demons really came through that door, no woman painted black. Like I postulated previously, we
think
we all saw something supernatural but in truth it was just an example of shared hallucinations."
think
we all saw something supernatural but in truth it was just an example of shared hallucinations."
Then, from upstairs:
BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!
Cora shrieked.
The Writer ground his teeth again.
Dicky pissed his pants and yelled, "Balls is plum
shootin'
someone!"
shootin'
someone!"
They could hear the mad footsteps thundering downward, then the fist banging on the door.
"Dickyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Open the fuckin' door!"
Dicky froze in place, but the Writer raced up the basement steps and opened the door to let a petrified Balls burst in and fall all the way down the stairs. In the second or two before the Writer reclosed the door, his eyes reached out unto the candle-lit sitting-room where he thought he saw a sleek shadow diced by snatches of white bare skin. He caught a half-glimpse of pre-eminent breasts, a half-glimpse of a flat female abdomen, and even a quarter-glimpse of a bald, plump, beauteous pubis with a seraphic pink twist of flesh peeking through the bifurcation.
And a one-eighth-glimpse of a Black Angus bull's head complete with horns.
The Writer slammed and barred the door just as the shadow would be at the threshold, and with the slam, he heard an animal-like howl...
Other books
Fira and the Full Moon by Gail Herman
Head Shot by Jardine, Quintin
Dafne desvanecida by José Carlos Somoza
The Saint in Trouble by Leslie Charteris
The Mystery at Lilac Inn by Carolyn Keene
Priscilla by Nicholas Shakespeare
The Queen's Handmaid by Tracy L. Higley
Direct Action by Keith Douglass
We the Animals by Justin Torres