It was hard to miss the large wooden O mounted by the door of the bungalow. O as in obedient, onerous, obscene. The stain along the bottom of the letter conjured an image of ragged teeth and a tongue. Gray and black rotting leaves filled one side of the porch. The window screens were rusted and torn. An omnipresent carelessness suggested abandonment, but this was the address she’d been given. It was nothing like what she’d expected. It didn’t appear sinister enough.
Before she reached the door, it opened. A thin man in a gray suit too small for him gazed up at her. “Miss Whyte?”
“Please, Darla.”
“Come in, Miss Whyte. Welcome to Pembroke House.”
The interview took place in the front room, at a card table with two folding chairs. A sleeping bag and bathrobe lay folded in a nearby corner. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with a variety of African, Northwest tribal, and Inuit spirit masks. It was bitter cold, but as far as she could tell the furnace wasn’t on and the fireplace was dark. She zipped her coat up to her throat. With growing impatience, Darla watched the man study two sheets of paper covered in dense handwriting. Finally, he looked up. “Are you married?”
“Nope.”
“Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Children?”
“No to all three. Happily, purposefully unattached. If you’re trying to find out if anyone might miss me enough to call the police, well, that won’t be a problem. I have no one.”
He scribbled a note in the margin of one of the sheets. “Do you drink or use drugs?”
“No.” She’d come from an AA meeting. She’d lied to them as well.
“And you’re a student at the university? Religious Studies?”
“I am. All independent study. I don’t go to classes.” The thought of attending class, with classmates, made her shudder.
“And you’ll be working at the library down the street as well?”
“I’ll be doing some cataloguing for them, yes.”
“Eve Pembroke was the original head librarian.”
“I know. It’s one of the reasons I want to work there. Her book collection is here, right? In her old house? My faculty advisor promised I would get to use it.”
“Professor Jay Douglas, yes. A good friend of the Institute. You will have unfettered access to her books on the premises, but you must never take them from this house, or bring in any outside materials from the library or any other source whatsoever. We cannot risk . . . contamination.”
She was beginning to suspect he might be an officious prick. Darla did not obey rules, especially silly ones. “Of course. I promise.”
“Your event occurred ten years ago, when you were twelve years of age?”
“By event, if you mean my exorcism, yes.”
He frowned but kept his eyes on the papers. “Have you experienced your first period?”
“I was having my first period at the time of the exorcism. It made it quite memorable. I didn’t know. I thought that’s the way it was going to be every month. Can you imagine?” He frowned but said nothing. “Why? Does that disqualify me?”
He looked surprised. “No, not at all. That’s what it says here. I just need to verify.”
“Does it also say that my mother, my own mother, performed that exorcism because I was having my first period?”
“Yes, yes it does. And unfortunately, this resulted in your mother’s demise?”
“The demon fucking ate her!” Darla hadn’t intended to shout. But this was a big deal in her life, and it demanded acknowledgement.
He gazed at her unblinking, as if he could see right through her. “My condolences.” He glanced at the papers in his hand again, then folded them into thirds and slid them into his coat pocket. “Perhaps you would like me to show you the . . . well, it’s in the next room.”
“Is that it? Have I been hired?”
“The Institute does not want you to think of this as a job interview. It is far more important than that. You may move your things in at any time. It will be up to he-who-comes whether you shall remain. Only he can judge you as a vessel.”
“So like any other man.”
“He is not a man. Do not make that mistake.”
“I know not all demons are male.”
“Correct. Females certainly exist. Ardat Lili, Batibat, Empusa, Lamashgtu, Lilitu, several others.”
“So, which one are we angling for?”
“I haven’t been informed, I’m afraid.”
“Above your pay grade, huh? No blood oath, no ironclad NDA?”
He didn’t answer. He turned and walked toward the frosted French doors at the back of the room.
“Hey! Was I the only candidate?”
He looked over his shoulder, clearly annoyed. “I am not allowed to say.” He flung open the doors.
It was a beautiful room, probably the original dining room, done in the Craftsman style with box-beams across the ceiling, intricate molding, an arts and crafts chandelier, and built-in bookcases around the perimeter. The curtains were open, exposing stained glass. Red and blue rays patterned the books, those gorgeous volumes in their worn leather bindings with raised cords.
The massive emblem which covered most of the oak floor was from a different design tradition entirely. A thick layer had been scraped away from the surface of the dark boards to expose their much lighter interior. At first glance this scraping appeared frantic and uneven, as if animals had been confined here. But when she looked closely, she saw the depth of excavation was consistent over the entire design, and the finer scratches radiating from the circumference created a halo effect which must have been purposeful.
Superimposed over this thoroughly worked area was a complex engraved design of interlocking oval mandalas containing interior circles and squares. Darla couldn’t quite figure out how these onion-like layers had been accomplished. They appeared both raised above the scraped area and embedded deep within it, the appearance changing as she walked around the outer edge. The design was suggestive of celestial navigation. Within each mandala were countless internal connecting lines, fine as hairs. Depending on where she stood, she thought she could see various figures worked into the design: exotic creatures, landscapes, and architecture which transformed as she moved.
There were hooks embedded in the floor at various connecting points. “Those hooks are where you’ll be tying me down?”
“Oh, there are no such plans. Ms. Pembroke had someone tie her to those hooks, or she tied herself. We don’t know. But all we want you to do is to take notes concerning anything you see, hear, or feel while you are staying here. If some sort of possession were to occur, you would then receive the proper guidance.”
“Guidance from whom? I’m surrounded by higher powers, it seems. Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me, and I’m supposed to trust them.”
He shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea. As you so succinctly phrased it, above my pay grade.” He gave her the keys. “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you want to do this? Especially given your traumatic history. I realize that was one reason you were selected, but why put yourself through that again?”
Darla smiled. “My therapist thought it would be a good idea. She’s tried everything else.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Dr. Sorros said. “Don’t do this, Darla.” She waited for Darla to respond, but Darla had learned her therapist couldn’t bear the silence and would eventually speak. Increasingly this woman reminded her of her mother. Overdressed and too sure of herself.
While waiting for her doctor to speak again (the poor woman couldn’t help herself), Darla glanced at her bookcase: Trauma Treatment, Attachment, Diversity in Clinical Practice, Psychopharmacology, High Risk Clients, bound volumes of Psychological Medicine, The Lancet Psychiatry, and Clinical Psychology Review. Those were shelved either quite high or quite low.
Arranged on the easy-to-reach shelves, among scattered romance novels, were titles like The Silva Mind Control Method, Crystals for Beginners, Linda Goodman’s Sun Signs, and The Secret. Not for the first time Darla wondered how she’d gotten stuck with such a crap therapist.
“I respect your beliefs, Darla, but as I’ve told you before this is outside my area of expertise. Demonic possession is not a valid psychiatric or medical diagnosis recognized by either the DSM-5 or the ICD-10.”
Darla struggled to control her temper. “My mother was trying to get the bad stuff out of me. Open me up like an abscess to release the pus. But that allowed more infection to come in. The doctors at first thought I had epilepsy, or Tourette’s. My OB-GYN thought I might be pregnant! I lost memories. Christ, I was having fits! I could use a good purging, don’t you think?”
“I know it may seem as if a supernatural being took control of you when you had those attacks, but isn’t an explanation other than the occult possible? You were deeply traumatized. Mental distress is a common response to such trauma.”
“Nothing you’ve done has helped me!” She got out of her chair and went to the bookcase. “How can you read this crap? Can’t you feel your brain rotting?”
“Darla, please return to your seat.”
“Yes ma’am.” She sat primly, hands on her knees. “My life needs purpose. I need to count for something. Maybe this new occupation, adventure, whatever you want to call it, can point me in the right direction.”
“I know you love books—”
“I don’t always understand what I’m thinking. I don’t always recognize my thoughts as my own thoughts. Books speak to me—I find myself in them.”
“I’ve suggested journaling before. Writing down your innermost feelings, your ordinary thoughts, might reconnect you, discourage your habit of obfuscating. Also, some exercise, walks in nature—”
“I need new drugs. I still have a lot of pain from my exorcism. Can you help me with that, Doc?”
“Clearly opioids are not the answer. How is AA going, by the way?”
“Wonderful! Brilliant! I can’t remember the last time I had a drink.”
Darla hoped the Queneau librarian couldn’t smell the alcohol on her breath. She’d used mouth wash, coffee, peanut butter. Those usually did the trick, but some people had better olfactory abilities than others. She was convinced her brain worked better after a few drinks. Alcohol possessed her just enough to be useful.
Ms. Reynolds wore a 3D-printed plastic compression mask strapped to her head to cover her severe facial burns. No one warned Darla. The most surprising thing about the transparent mask was how much Darla envied it. It allowed enough of the underlying flesh to show through, and yet the damage, and her likeness, were nicely obscured.
“It’s really quite lovely,” Darla said, after Ms. Reynolds provided a brief, matter-of-fact explanation of what had happened to her. The librarian’s home lay in ruins across the street, her son, the presumed fire starter, still missing.
“Thank you, but we needn’t speak of my injuries again. You have a time-consuming job ahead of you. Professor Douglas says you have extensive experience with the evaluation and cataloging of fragile collections?”
“I’m well-versed, yes.” Jay had exaggerated her part-time junior college library experience considerably. She was nervous about whatever repayment he expected. “And I have a lifelong passion for knowledge and learning.”
“Very good.” The rattle of the birdcage elevator made conversation difficult. Darla worried there might not be an escape option if it stopped working. She could feel her claustrophobia blooming.
The cage opened and they stepped out. There was a pronounced odor: sour musk, mold, and was that oysters? Ms. Reynolds flipped the light switch and various grimy bulbs struggled to burn. The Gothic architecture might have once been opulent: pointed arches and ribbed vaults, ornate iron brackets which were now badly oxidized. The walls had been drabbed down with olive-colored paint randomly applied. The books Darla could see were a mix of the common and the obscure, inconsistently arranged.
“This is the second basement. You’ll start here. The level above, for all its mess, will be less of a challenge. The contents of the level below have mostly liquified, I’m afraid, due to frequent water incursions. There is at least one level below that, completely flooded and lost.”
“What’s the caged area in the corner?”
“Ms. Pembroke made it her office space. It hasn’t been touched since her demise. The shelves contain some of our more outré items. It’s where you’ll be working. No one will bother you. My staff refuses to come down here. Perform light repairs if you will, but most will require expert conservation. At best you’ll have chipped and bowing boards to contend with, foxing, wormholes, that sort of thing. Many are in disastrous shape. Are you familiar with Ms. Pembroke’s studies?”
Darla could barely contain herself. She’d expected Pembroke’s items either to be lost or off-limits. “She’s part of my independent study. Early twentieth century female occult investigators.”
“So, you believe in demons and evil and all that?”
“Evil is a human construct. I don’t know if there is a spiritual evil or not. Perhaps it’s simply a set of behaviors we do not understand. What do you believe?”
The librarian didn’t answer. Darla started to turn around to make sure Reynolds was still there when she heard, “I’m not a believer in much of anything. I’ll leave you to your work. If you need anything just come upstairs. And remember, none of these materials can leave this room.”
Darla turned and smiled. “Of course not. They’re safe with me.”
She spent the next few hours searching Pembroke’s cage. She found the sketches, notes, and diagrams Jay told her about, secreting them inside the lining of her coat. They smelled bad. She hoped the stench wouldn’t alert any of the staff when she left the building.
Professor Jay Douglas stood before the blazing Pembroke House fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand. He’d stripped down to his tighty-whities. Darla thought he resembled an unattractive Oberon.
Darla was drunk, but not that drunk. “Put your pants back on, Jay. I’m not having sex with you or anybody else. To be blunt, I don’t like things inside—”
“That’s an unsophisticated view of sex. There are other—”
“Jay!”
He stared at her, looking disappointed, and finished his drink. While he was sitting on the ottoman getting dressed, Darla continued her study of the papers she’d stolen from the library along with some related volumes she’d pulled from the Pembroke House shelves. “How are your classes going, all the ones I don’t have to attend thanks to you?”
“None of the students are up to your standards of course, although many think they are. Charles, the one you hate, is worse than ever. He thinks he can get away with anything, the snobby little prick.”
“Maybe we should use Charles for a trial run. Tie him to the floor and see what happens.”
“I wish.” Jay had his pants on, but his shirt was still off. He was standing next to her now, a little too close. “Some spirits delight in causing suicide.”
She stepped away from him. “I won’t traffic in that.” Although a test subject was not a bad idea.
“Sweetheart, you don’t know what you want. You never have. You needed someone to protect you—you never had that. But I’m here now. I’m the one who can protect you.”
His words almost appealed to her. That was the frightening thing. “That thing my mother brought into me, when it left it took from me something essential. If I get it back I won’t need your help or anyone else’s.”
“You don’t know if it’s the same demon, or a demon at all.”
“I’ve read all of Pembroke’s notes. She did this more than once you know. She experienced numerous visitations from the same creature. The size and the shape, what facial features she could make out, even the smell of it. I’m sure it’s the same.”
“Don’t be obdurate. It could be a hungry ghost, or a dybbuk, a refugee from the other side needing a physical body it can use. Maybe it was someone who died a drunk, a parasite who wants to be able to drink through you via spiritual osmosis. You know Pembroke was an alcoholic, too.”
“What? Get out of here! I don’t need you to doubt my scholarship, especially not now.” He didn’t budge, but stepped closer, looking down on her. He’d done this before, his way to dominate.
She tried to slap him, but he grabbed both her wrists. “I understand. You’re torn. She almost killed you. But you’re an orphan. You miss her. You don’t want to hurt me. You love me. You would never hurt me.”
Darla gazed up at him, barely in control of her anger. “You really see me, don’t you? No, I could never hurt you.”
They drank some more. A lot more. Jay drank everything she put into his hand. He casually tried to undress her. She kept pushing him away.
She talked him into sitting on the floor. “If we pass out we’ll have a shorter distance to fall.” He laughed but kept complaining about the hooks snagging his pants and tearing his skin.
She put on one of the African masks, a brightly painted surprised look with a wide-open mouth and enormous eye holes. He stared at her dumbly, then exploded into hysterics, falling over, nearly out. She gently spread his legs, pushed his arms to ten and two. “Oh, darling,” he murmured in a distorted voice. She took out the rope and stretched it through the hooks and over his body, testing various star patterns and pentagrams, studying Pembroke’s drawings, trying to match them. Finally, she had a design similar to the last, most complex sketch of the series. She hoped it was similar enough. “Professor Douglas, how do you feel?”
He groaned. “Snug. It’s . . . snug. Can’t move.”
“Perfect.”
She positioned the candles at the prescribed points and read aloud a few passages in Latin from a volume with tattered edges and a badly water-damaged leather cover. Her Latin was a little rusty, but Jay’s was not. She watched his eyes widen as he began to realize what she was doing.
“Darla, untie me.” She enjoyed hearing, then felt vaguely guilty about, the shakiness in his voice.
“Of course. After we’re done.”
She had the books and papers stacked and marked in order according to Pembroke’s notes. At first she’d been annoyed by the woman’s marginalia, a nervous, jagged scrawl marring most of these rare, priceless books. But those jottings proved essential. She didn’t understand half of what she was saying or if she was pronouncing the words correctly, but hoped her passion and commitment counted for something. Other than a few passages from the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the items were rare and esoteric, including a 1702 edition Grand Grimoire, The Munich Manual, The Book of Soyga, The Picatrix, taped together photocopies from the gigantic Codex Gigas, and something Pembroke referred to as The Orange Book, handwritten in French bearing no publisher’s colophon, bound in the skin of an orangutan.
“Pembroke died during the rite!” Jay squirmed, fruitlessly trying to loosen the rope.
“We don’t know that Jay. All we know is she disappeared. I expect a bit more precision in the pronouncements of a tenured professor.”
Twenty minutes into the rite he began spouting nonsense, or she simply didn’t recognize the words. “Jay, honey, what language is that?” He stared at her with bloodshot eyes, then spoke more gibberish.
His face began to change. Subtly at first: a raised eyebrow, a thicker lip, the eyes morphing into different shapes and colors. When Jay began to resemble her mother, Darla didn’t want to see it. She ran and took the Inuit spirit mask off the wall and placed it over his face. The mask was distorted, lopsided, consistent with the warping flesh underneath. Still, Jay wouldn’t shut up. “You were always a whore, even at twelve! You lie to everyone! You’ve always lied!” It was her mother’s voice.
The voice grew huskier and more hateful. “I ate your mother and I’ll eat you too.” The eyes peering from the holes in the mask had lost their whites to pools of ochre, the giant obsidian pupils bulging.
His body took on an odious aspect, his belly swelling unevenly. She was embarrassed that it made her grin, thinking about this misogynistic male suffering some of the more uncomfortable indignities of pregnancy. His skin rippled as he expelled an offensive gas. Beneath the mask he produced an orchestra of sounds which should have been impossible for any human tongue.
He went still for several minutes, the skin of his torso so pale and bloodless she thought he might be dead. She hadn’t intended to murder him. This was supposed to be a test run before she performed the same ritual on herself.
She hadn’t thought this through. Instead of checking for a pulse she became distracted by her errors, her lack of preparation for contingencies. She’d have to record herself reading the passages—no way could she memorize all that. She could light the candles before she lay down inside the pattern. How could she tie herself down?
But the essential thing about the rope was not its security, but the pattern it made. With enough practice she might be able to thread the pattern while propped up on one elbow, then tighten the rope when she lay down. It might take hours, even days of practice beforehand, but she thought she could manage it.
Or maybe she just needed to sucker some horny and bookish college kid into helping her. Whatever was required, she would get back what had been taken from her all those years ago.
Jay began to weep. Faintly at first. At least he was still alive. She could hardly hear him. But as the volume increased . . . where had she heard that voice? That little girl’s voice coming out of a grown man’s mouth. That shy, awkward, polite, soft-spoken little girl.
Darla leaned over, pulled aside the ropes framing his head, and jerked the mask away to expose the smallish face.
It had been her face when she was only twelve, before the innocence and the kindness had been stolen away. She’d made a terrible mistake. The little girl she had been was now irretrievably stuck in him, and it was her own damn fault.
Originally published in Wilted Pages, edited by Christi Nogle and Ai Jiang.
