On the Edge of Oblivion
by Michael Jess Alexander
part 1
Mark
Mark recognized that familiar sensation, the nagging feeling that he was being watched. It was potent, clinging to his psyche even as he rationalized his paranoia. He was an addict searching for an overdue taste of his chosen poison, when every unsolicited glance, every footstep in his direction, would be pregnant with threat.
And the authorities were not his only worry. The addict quickly learns to accept danger, receiving tales of deals gone sideways and of acts performed for drugs that sound embellished before the addict realizes his own desperation has also become more demanding than his pride. Mark had lived the life long enough to realize the frailty of dignity.
The guy promising cheap dope was a weirdo, for sure. He was lean, had sunken eyes that were framed by black eyeglasses, and had thin brown hair that was parted on the side. His outfit consisted of a grey polo shirt, jeans long past their prime, and shabby, once-white sneakers. Yes, he was a weirdo, but not so much more than Mark’s typical associate.
The one thing that did get under Mark’s skin, though, was the man’s grin. The grin struck Mark as insincere or, perhaps, too eager. He realized that had it not been so long since he last shot up, he probably could have held out for another opportunity to score but, as Mark’s stepfather used to always remind him when he was younger, beggars cannot be choosers.
Paul, which is what the weirdo said his name was, motioned to a little red hatchback parked by the encampment. He flashed that grin again and began walking towards the car. Mark followed and, on the way, spotted a face in the encampment. This was a face he had first noticed recently, and it belonged to a man wearing a faded blue jacket and a shaggy blond moustache.
The man noticed he was being observed and deflected his gaze.
What is it they say? Mark wondered as he thought of this new addition to the encampment. Misery loves company.
Mark got into the weirdo’s car.
* * *
Paul slowed the vehicle and turned to enter a cemetery.
Through the thin morning fog, Mark surveyed the grounds. The cemetery was ancient, judging from the worn, often lopsided tombstones and antiquated wrought iron fencing. It also was nearly bereft of mourners.
Must be an easy job being a sexton, Mark thought, thinking about the weirdo’s occupation, which, he had learned from his ad hoc dealer, is a person who takes care of a graveyard. Although I’m not so sure about living here!. He smiled at the idea of himself looking down on another person’s accommodations.
Through squinted eyes, Mark spotted a grey-haired gentleman in a brown suit standing before a tombstone. He wondered whom this man was mourning and felt a sting of regret at having failed to ever develop a relationship worth such sorrow. The sting was muted, though, due to its familiarity.
While gravel crunched under the car’s tires, Mark espied a small house. Its grey and plain exterior suggested a parentage to the surrounding tombstones.
Paul pulled into the gravel driveway to the right of the house, then put the car in park and killed the engine. “Well, we’re here,” he said before exiting the vehicle.
Mark stepped out and was greeted by the brisk scent of autumn foliage. He followed Paul to the tiny concrete porch and watched as his host opened the door and motioned him in.
Crossing the threshold, Mark was confronted by a musty odor. And despite being sparsely furnished, the inside of the house was somehow more cramped than he expected.
“Have a seat,” Paul said, gesturing to the right of the entrance to a shabby orange couch covered with a pilled brown blanket. “I’ll go get the stuff.”
Mark took a seat and watched the weirdo stroll into the room to the right of the couch, which he figured was the bedroom. He began to scratch one of the raw patches on his left arm.
Paul returned, holding the goods behind his back. A Cheshire grin spread across his face.
“That the stuff?” Mark asked.
“Oh yeah.”
“Well then, come on. Give it to me!” Mark dug into his jacket pocket. He offered up a wad of crumpled bills. “I’m dyin’ here.”
Paul stepped before Mark, his hands still behind his back. He contorted his grin into a manic scowl.
With a look of disbelief, Mark uttered a flat: “What?”
Paul let out a piercing shriek as he raised a large glimmering knife in the air.
Aggressive knocks sounded at the front door, followed by a shout of: “Police! Open up!” Spurred by the interruption, Paul sunk the knife into Mark’s chest.
Exhaling in a gasp, Mark wailed with abandon as crimson spread across his shirt.
Undeterred by Mark’s flailing about and the pounding at the door, Paul pulled out the knife and stabbed him again.
The door gave way, and a cop yelled, “Drop the knife!”
Mark felt himself slipping away, yet despite the enveloping darkness that became more definite with each diminished heartbeat, he still heard the gunshot and saw his murderer crumple to the floor.
The cop approached him, and through weakening eyes, Mark made out the face of the man with the shaggy blond moustache. With his remaining will, Mark smiled. His paranoia had been justified after all.
Tristan
“The spiderman is having you for dinner tonight.”
Leaning against a wall, Tristan watched as Cynthia turned down the volume on the radio. “Hey, Cyn! I was listening to that. It’s a new song from The Cure.”
Like an angry parent, Cynthia shot him a quick glower. In deference, he avoided her gaze and busied his eyes by observing the other members of the coven, assembled in the living room of Cynthia’s stepbrother’s apartment.
On the far end of the couch to Tristan’s right sat Lars, a somewhat stocky middle-aged man with a greyish beard whose lack of a discernible accent left his name as the only conspicuous sign of his neglected Swedish heritage. He sat stiffly and wore his usual sour expression. Lars’ demeanor suggested confidence, a confidence Tristan considered undeserved and, therefore, annoying.
On the opposite side of the room, Jayme sat in an armchair. The newest member of the coven, she was a lithe woman in her twenties whose most striking characteristic was her green eyes, which was accentuated not only by her bold eyebrows but also by the contrast of her pale skin and brunette hair. She was certainly beautiful, Tristan thought, but not as beautiful as their leader.
Their leader, the dark-haired and sharp-featured woman who had just glowered at Tristan, looked as though she was about to make a pronouncement. “My lovelies,” she said, “with All Hallows Eve upon us, I’ve taken care to prepare a special ritual worthy of our fledgling yet powerful coven. This” — Cynthia said with a raise of an eyebrow — “will truly set us apart.”
“Oh?” Lars chimed in. “What ritual might that be?”
“All in due time, Lars,” Cynthia said. “Although, I will share that the locus of our ritual should excite you.”
Lars leaned forward.
“We’ll be setting up in the sexton’s house in Reston Cemetery.”
“Where the Junkie Killer lived?” Jayme asked.
The Junkie Killer? The name elicited a shiver from Tristan.
“The energy must be massive. You must have something big planned,” Lars said.
With a smile, Cynthia nodded.
Jayme
From the apartment building stairs, Jayme observed Cynthia and Lars, who were speaking next to Lars’s station wagon. Jayme couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Lars wore a serious expression and Cynthia a look of annoyance. Being a typical dynamic between the two, this didn’t provide Jayme much indication as to the content of their conversation.
“So,” Tristan said as he sat next to Jayme, “what do you think she has planned?”
Still gazing at the two by the station wagon, Jayme replied, “A summoning? A rain spell? I don’t know.” She looked at Tristan. “It’s going to be something to show she’s worthy of Reynard’s spell book.”
“Don’t you think she’s worthy?” Tristan asked, suspicion in his tone.
“Sure,” Jayme said offhandedly. “I chose to follow her, didn’t I?” She thought of Harold and his devotion to Reynard and wondered whether any of her current associates suspected her ex as her motivation for choosing Cynthia over their prior leader.
In particular, she wondered about Lars, for he was the one who had introduced her to Harold. The middle-aged man had not yet indicated any such suspicion so far as Jayme could tell, but she also understood that he was also not the most expressive individual.
Tristan shrugged. “Jayme?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you worry about Reynard taking revenge? For us leaving? For Cynthia taking his book?”
The question evoked for Jayme the imposing visage of their prior leader. She sighed. “I don’t think so. He has other copies, and I think he’d consider revenge petty and beneath him.” Her mind conjured the sight of Reynard’s resolute brown eyes framed by his bushy eyebrows. “He might get back at Cynthia in some way if given the chance, but I don’t think the rest of us have anything to worry about.”
“Hey! Let’s go!” Lars hollered from behind the driver’s side door.
Jayme and Tristan stood up.
“Let’s hope so,” Tristan said as they began walking towards the station wagon.
* * *
Coming to the apex of an incline, Jayme could see in the distance the headstones of the graveyard. In a low-lying fog, the tops of the headstones resembled skyscrapers peeking through clouds.
Performing a spell in a graveyard is powerful juju, she thought. Glancing at Cynthia in the front passenger seat, she noted the confidence of her expression, her default satisfied and determined look. Jayme felt the beginnings of doubt and brushed them aside with a quiet assertion: Cynthia knows what she’s doing.
“There it is,” Cynthia declared, pointing to the little grey house in the midst of the cemetery.
It’s so drab, Jayme thought. It’s a glorified tool shed.
After Lars pulled the station wagon in front of the house, Jayme scanned the graveyard for potential interlopers. There were no visitors at the cemetery at least for now. Jayme thought of what Cynthia had said earlier, about how once the sun fell, thrill-seeking youths would likely enter the grounds, daring each other to perform some juvenile game or ritual like Bloody Mary or an impromptu séance, but that they shouldn’t bother the coven. The notoriety of the Junkie Killer would most likely keep them away from the house.
Lars put the station wagon in park.
“Wait here a moment,” Cynthia told Lars. She turned to Jayme and Tristan. “Let’s go.”
Once out of the vehicle, Jayme regarded the run-down building. I can’t imagine living here, she thought.
Cynthia turned to Tristan. “Collect the crowbar from the trunk and open the door,” she said.
Tristan nodded and did as instructed. The crowbar encountered meager resistance.
Jayme watched as Cynthia stepped to the driver’s side window of the station wagon. Lars rolled down the window. “Park behind the house,” Cynthia told him. “No need to advertise that we’re here.”
Cynthia then strolled to the entry. Tristan stepped aside to allow her access to the door. She pushed the door open and, standing on the threshold, gestured to Jayme and Tristan to follow her.
Jayme discovered that the inside of the house was more oppressive than the outside. It was as rundown as the exterior but also cramped, an aspect emphasized by the gloomy darkness of the wood floor and greyness of the bare walls. No wonder you were driven to murder, she thought, thinking of the former inhabitant. Turning to the sound of a footstep, she saw Lars walk through the front door.
“It’s musty in here,” Tristan complained. He coughed and fanned the air in front of him.
Pointing at the door to the right of a beat-up orange couch, Cynthia announced, “There.” Cynthia stepped to the door, opened it, and perused the inside before walking into the unlit room. Jayme and the others followed.
Like the rest of the house, the room was exceedingly modest, containing only a twin-size wireframe bed and a small, round, chest-high table. The table stood in the corner to the right of the doorway, and the bed, covered by a faded patchwork quilt, lay against the wall to the left. Accentuating the room’s austerity, a lone curtained window in the wall on the right allowed in some diminishing dusk light.
Stepping to the table, Cynthia set the heavy spell book atop it while Tristan and Lars sat on the bed. Jayme thought she observed Tristan make a slight grimace when Lars sat next to him. Jayme was, herself, less than keen on Lars despite his being the one who had introduced her to real magic.
Her mild distaste stemmed from having caught more than one lascivious glance from him during their acquaintance. When found out, he would always quickly abandon such glances, and he had not made any advances more explicit than this, so Jayme put up with him. Still, she sometimes wondered why the others tolerated his presence. Having a mere three followers would be too undignified for Cynthia, she figured.
Not eager to sit so close to her compatriots and being less trusting than they of the quilt on the bed, Jayme leaned against the wall between the bed and doorway. She watched as Cynthia opened the tome to a marked page.
Cynthia took from her backpack a small corked bottle and a little purple pouch, which she placed next to the book. She also retrieved a porcelain saucer from her backpack and placed this before the book.
That’s the pouch she keeps thornwood shavings in, Jayme thought. She considered the powder in the bottle. That looks like bone ash. Jayme could conjure in her mind several spells that involved such ingredients, but included in this number was the summoning of a spirit, which, considering the location, seemed most likely.
“All right, my lovelies. Get ready to meet a Mr. Louis Thibodeaux. The recent resident of this” — she motioned around the room — “grand dwelling.”
Jayme watched as Cynthia began the incantation.
“Chiornamas, zatol, chianudor...”
Cynthia poured a small pile of the thornwood shavings on the saucer. She then took a pinch of the bone ash and, as Jayme furrowed her brow, sprinkled it on the pile of shavings.
The familiarity of the ingredients and the incantation’s verbalization gave way to a sudden recollection, one about a conversation on dangerous spells. “Wait!” Jayme yelled.
Cynthia, blindingly focused on the spell, completed the last step by igniting the shavings with a lighter.
Harold
Stepping out of his car, Harold gazed upon the imposing dwelling of the coven’s high priest, Reynard. In the dusk light, the dark Victorian house loomed over the neighborhood like a schoolmarm with a distaste for children.
Harold walked to the wrought iron gate, opened it, and made his way up two sets of concrete stairs and the porch’s wooden stairs before arriving at the two-door entrance to his master’s home. He pressed the black doorbell and waited. A moment later, the right door creaked open, and the high priest appeared, smiling down at Harold through the crack.
“Hello, Harold. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“May we speak inside?”
“By all means,” Reynard replied, opening the door more fully and gesturing inside.
Harold followed Reynard into the fireplace-lit living room to the left of the foyer. He sat down on the tufted leather couch before a close-curtained window while Reynard took a seat in an ornately upholstered armchair cater-corner to and facing the couch.
“I know,” Harold sputtered, “that you’ve good reason to be upset with her, but—”
The fire bestowing him a halo of warring light and shadow, the tall man smiled and waved away such concern.
“I’m trying to find Jayme, Reynard.”
“And you thought I might be able to assist in this endeavor.”
Harold nodded.
Reynard sighed and danced his fingertips on the armrests. “It’s true,” he said, “that your former paramour has displeased me.”
A slight grimace escaped Harold, but he didn’t let it linger.
“My boy,” Reynard said, feigned surprise in his voice, “can’t you see I’m as happy as a clam?”
Harold looked at his master quizzically.
“I’m going to let you in on a secret, Harold. I knew that upstart Lars and his fellow heretics were going to abandon us.” Raising his hand and closing his eyes, he said, “It’s okay.” Opening his eyes, he continued. “You’ve no need to fret. I don’t doubt your loyalty to the coven, nor do I hold your concern for your former lover against you. But you should know it’s too late.”
Copyright © 2024 by Michael Jess Alexander
