Ancient Exhumations +2 Page 7

  Martin distrusted Brachamashoot instinctively, although he appreciated the demon’s unquenchable appetite for pleasure. Together they launched upon a series of picaresque adventures, wallowing in the unfettered exploration of deeds both ignoble and despicable. They experimented with every intoxicating substance their money could buy, quickly progressing from alcohol to absinthe to morphine and deadly night shade. They worked their way up from common whoring to vandalism, robbery, and arson, culminating in a scenario that included torture and murder. Their anonymous sexual exploits involved not only prostitutes but willing and unwilling members of both sexes, and eventually even animals and reptiles.

  Brachamashoot’s powers over the minds of others never ceased to amaze his human companion and, as promised, they remained totally immune from any and all unpleasant repercussions arising from their actions. Eventually, however, Martin began to feel the unreality of their existence, and, although he fought against it, he eventually had to acknowledge his increasing dissatisfaction, alienation, and even loneliness.

  Poor, pathetic little Ellen, as gullible and trusting as ever, was allowed to emerge only occasionally in order to accompany Martin to social functions and public appearances, at which times Martin made sure she always put on a good show. She would always be disoriented and confused due to the overwhelming gaps in her recollection, but everyone could see how dependent upon her attentive husband she had become. When alone with Martin, she sometimes expressed the fear that she was losing her mind, but he always managed to assure her that she just needed rest and that everything was fine. It was not long before he began to dread the infrequent moments he was obligated to spend in her zombie-like company. She had always been too clingingly dependent, and now he loathed her and her perpetually adoring attitude.

  Eventually, Martin even grew dissatisfied with his revels with Brachamashoot. He did his best to hide his disillusionment from the demon, his lack of independence transforming first into resentment, then into intense hatred.

  Brachamashoot sometimes treated him as an inferior and constantly joked about the feeblemindedness of humans. Slowly but surely, Martin realized that, much like Ellen, he had fallen under the overriding control of the demon.

  Martin returned to his translation work with an entirely new goal in mind. He was determined to find a key somewhere within the manuscripts that would provide him with the means to rid himself of Brachamashoot once and for all.

  It was in the second of the thaumaturgic manuscripts that he learned of the Chimaera, a brand of “archdaemon” tremendously more powerful than lesser demons like Brachamashoot. He decided he should summon the most powerful Chimaera of all, the one referred to as the “steward of Nyarlathotep, the Black Faceless One, the Avatar of Chaos.” This particular archdemon, called Achsheilah, should easily be able to dispose with Brachamashoot’s parasitic presence. The book warned that Chimaeras were extremely dangerous to all but the most experienced Archimagus, but a desperate man is rarely a cautious man, so Martin jotted the pertinent passages down for himself before turning the day’s translations over to Waltham.

  Martin immediately began to gather the candles, chalk, dagger, and live doves required for his second sorceric adventure. A full ceremony was required this time, which he planned to perform in the privacy of the large basement area under his house. Little sound would escape its thick cement walls and flooring, lessening the likelihood that the neighbors would hear should Brachamashoot become unruly.

  When all was in readiness, Martin tiptoed upstairs to check on Brachamashoot as a final precaution. With a chill, he noted two undulating ridges rising and falling under the sheet that covered the sleeper. Brachamashoot did not require sleep, but the body did, so the demon was free to occupy himself elsewhere while Ellen slept. Her body was guarded at such times by the two tiny snakes Martin had spotted the night of the honeymoon. The reptilian watchmen emerged each night from Ellen’s possessed mouth, slithered protectively up and down the sleeping form, then returned to the oral cavern when the body was rested or when danger threatened their unconscious, and thereby vulnerable, charge. Once inside, the snakes signaled Brachamashoot, whose return was imminent.

  As Martin observed the gentle movements beneath the covers, he experienced an odd mixture of revulsion and arousal as he considered the sensual implications of such clammy vermin freely exploring the intimate mounds and valleys of Ellen’s supine torso. He quickly drove the latter fancies from his mind and gingerly retraced his steps. Confident now that Brachamashoot did not suspect his intended treachery, Martin closed the bedroom door and hurriedly returned to the basement.

  Once there, he drew two large concentric circles on the exposed concrete of the cellar floor with chalk, according to the book’s instruction. The larger circle, just over eight feet in diameter, was sketched to encompass a smaller circle, nearly seven feet in diameter. Within the inner figure, he sketched an equilateral triangle with points touching but not intersecting its encircling boundary. Even if Martin’s visitor from beyond proved dangerous, it would be safely contained by and within the circumference of the outer circle. Finally, he switched off the light.

  The ritual reminded Martin of something out of a Dennis Wheatley novel, but recent occurrences had made him a desperate believer. It had taken a lot to bring him to this — standing in a dark basement alone, draped in a black hooded robe, lighting candles and tracing protective symbols in the air with his hands. Each movement and intonation was carefully executed, as Martin no longer underestimated the chicanery of the book’s foul spawn.

  Next, he slit the throats of three doves and spilled their blood precisely in the space between the two inscribed circles. This would invite the immaterial archdemon to construct a temporary physical vehicle for itself out of the blood and thereby allow it to communicate in a manner comprehensible to a human.

  As Martin chanted the archdemon’s name, the area within the triangle began to glow, heated by some unseen force. The doves’ blood slowly began to creep in streaming rivulets across the floor to meet in the exact center of the geometric figure. Once there, it coagulated and boiled into a steaming glob. Abruptly, three streams of the sanguine matter shot out to envelope the feet, eyes, and beaks of the three carcasses. These were ripped from the mutilated bodies of the fowl as the streams retracted, then absorbed into the bloody mass.

  Martin watched in sickened amazement as the apparition fashioned a body for itself from the oozing glob. A swollen conglomerate slowly rose up, balanced precariously on three spindly, mismatched legs, the remaining legs dangling uselessly from the malformed midsection. A half-dozen dove eyes jammed together near the top of the blob, facing Martin, all six of their pupils moving in unison. A few inches lower down on the crimson mass, the gaping beaks settled together in a grisly horizontal formation.

  For a few moments, the gawking mockery of a head bobbed uncontrolled in the air, then all three beaks opened simultaneously, intoning in screechytoned chorus, “Who dares summon me?” The demand was made in an archaic Persian dialect that had been obsolete since the reign of Xerxes.

  The book admonished the conjurer to show no fear in the presence of the otherworldly, lest the spirit gain the upper hand. It had also described Achsheilah as possessing a form that inspired “wonder and great respect,” which this image certainly did not. Revolted rather than inspired, Martin felt sure something was wrong. He forsook English momentarily to deliver a bluff to the aviary caricature.

  “Begone, you coprolitic lackey! You insult the mighty Achsheilah by this impersonation!” he shouted.

  A sudden intensification of heat caused the flooring beneath the disgusting creature to glow white hot. The hideous little monstrosity quivered and shook with such ferocity that its borrowed limbs, beaks, and eyes were dislodged and fell to the floor. The torso disintegrated, transforming into a deliquescent puddle of black viscous blood. The puddle emitted suffocating fumes that seared the onlooker’s lungs and exposed skin with an ammonia-like bu
rning.

  Martin stood firm despite the pain in his lungs and watched the fumes twist and swirl as they condensed, forming the outline of a huge beast situated within the inner circle. The ammonia-like odor quickly dissipated, replaced momentarily by a crisp atmospheric sterility not unlike that produced by the presence of ozone, and as the last wisps fell into place, the final touches were added to the menacing manifestation of a surreal but living creature.

  The shock of recognition caused Martin to step back in amazement. He had expected such a highly ranked demon to bear an impressive cast, but how could he have ever guessed? Before him stood the very symbol of ancient Persian cruelty, dignity, and power — the fabled griffin! The haughty amalgam turned its truncated head solemnly to the side, its gaze directed beyond its savage beak, boring directly into Martin’s soul. Its blunt eagle head, feathermaned and lion-eared, blended gracefully into the fullness of the neck and torso of a lion. There were other aviary features in the form of a pair of gigantic wings that rose and fell in time with the thing’s breath, and deadly talons that extruded from its paws. The dim candlelight defined a beautiful, majestic creature, Martin realized, one infinitely more worthy of his attention than Brachamashoot.

  The demon griffin loomed larger than an elephant, its wings cramped by the basement ceiling, allowing it little room to maneuver within the circle. Yet the teratological giant was not awkward or ungainly; rather, it seemed as if time passed at a subtly slower rate for the beast, lending an almost elegant grace to its every move.

  Despite its fabulous appearance, however, the beast was quite familiar to Martin, who had seen it again and again among the monuments of Persepolis, monuments (it was now obvious) patterned after living models. Martin realized the source of the fabled might of Persia — by enlisting the aid of invulnerable mutant beasts such as this, the Persian monarchs had conquered the world!

  As Martin stared intently into the creature’s eyes, a series of vivid images were conveyed to him telepathically — the savage destruction of the Greek Acropolis in 480 b.c. The darkness around him dissipated, supplanted by the unsettling vision of giant mutant bulls, four-winged djinn, bloodthirsty flying griffins, and even an enormous phoenix swooping down to descend upon the helpless citadel like a whirlwind of devils. Believing themselves abandoned by the gods, the terrified Athenians had fled the deadly onslaught of Hades’ spawn, but at the direction of their Persian masters, the terrifying monstrosities massacred them to a man. Then, their fury unabated, the horde eagerly demolished the very epitome of Athenian art and architecture, quickly reducing the marvelous temples and sculptures to hopeless ruin.

  Even when viewing the scene over two thousand years after its occurrence, Martin was sickened by his vision of the slaughter. Although he had been aware of an immense but indistinct black shadow looming approvingly over the scene from the very start, only now did he recognize it as the shade of Nyarlathotep, the Faceless Avatar of Chaos, delighting in the carnage created by his multi-farious hell herd.

  Achsheilah, who had patiently observed the awestruck human, suddenly stirred. “Khayli khoob,” it uttered in deep, mellifluous, yet obviously feminine tones.

  As if released from a trance, Martin peered suspiciously at the demon. Unless his ears deceived him, the griffin had clearly and concisely said “very good.” Martin hesitantly responded by greeting the griffin in English.

  Achsheilah stared at him with evident irritation until Martin realized his rude mistake; an answer should always be given in same language as the question. He switched to the creature’s native tongue, Farsi, blurting out the traditional introductory “Salaam,” hesitantly appending the respectful word for addressing a female.

  Instantly Achsheilah responded with the proper response of “Salaam a laykum,” then formally inquired as to Martin’s wellbeing.

  Martin stumblingly inquired if the griffin spoke English. Although somewhat perturbed at Martin’s curtailment of the greeting ritual, Achsheilah acquiesced by declaring in perfect English, “After almost twenty-three centuries, I despaired of ever returning to this world again. Your needs must be grievous indeed.”

  Martin compounded his rudeness by ignoring the griffin’s remark, asking instead, “Are there more like you or are you one of a kind?”

  “There are many thousands of Chimaeras,” she said condescendingly, “although we bear various forms. Collectively we are known as the Annihilating Swarm of the Lord Nyarlathotep.”

  Martin was taken aback. He had come across forbidding mentions of both Nyarlathotep and his Annihilating Swarm while translating the second volume of the Kurush Nameh. Nyarlathotep, an intrinsically evil pseudodeity, was intriguingly referred to therein as “the black faceless messenger” and “the crawling chaos.” His Swarm had been described as “a legion of invincible hell-beasts” garnered from a profane, poisonous world said to have once existed near the constellation of Orion. They served as his henchmen, capable of utterly exterminating whole worlds on command. In all of history, only the insidious Persian priests had ever dared harness the monstrous herd for their own ends. Martin began to comprehend the staggering potential of the secret he had stumbled upon; nothing on earth could stand in his way with these titans at his command! But for the moment, he reminded himself, he had a more immediate use for the archdemon.

  He carefully described his predicament to the solemn Chimaera, who listened patiently to the lengthy tale without comment. Finally, Martin concluded, “As you can see, I have summoned you to provide me with a means to rid himself of this parasite.”

  The griffin lowered her head as if considering the situation, then unfurled her gigantic wings as if about to take flight, the feathery tips again scraping the ceiling. “This Brachamashoot is not unknown to me. He is weak, yet once in possession of a living host, he cannot be exorcised. Only the death of the host can separate them. Your wife must die; there is no other way.”

  The finality of the statement left Martin dumbstruck. Was he actually desperate enough to kill Ellen? Could he stoop so low? Sure, he had his own money now and social standing, but she had done nothing to deserve such treatment. On the other hand, he rationalized, Ellen was not even a whole person anymore, just Brachamashoot’s intermittent puppet. She had been fading away for some time now, and it might be more merciful to put an end to her plight. But Brachamashoot would never allow it!

  As Martin struggled over the proposition, he found himself receiving precise instructions for overcoming the demon sleeping in the room above. If he crept up on the still-sleeping Ellen, he could use masking tape to cover her mouth. The snakes would not be able to alert Brachamashoot of the danger, and in their confused state, it would be easy to snip off their heads with a large pair of pinking shears.

  Without further hesitation, the determined scholar turned to the workbench behind him, collected tape and shears, then marched up the stairs. He returned minutes later, bearing an immobile Ellen in his arms, her lips still sealed with tape.

  Still following Achsheilah’s telepathic instruction, Martin approached the outer circle and, after closing his eyes, heaved his burden into the inner circle.

  Using her paws, the griffin guided the insensible form within the confines of the triangular inscription chalked upon the floor, holding the prone body in place with a single taloned paw.

  When the adhesive strip fell from Ellen’s mouth, Martin sensed Brachamashoot had returned, probably summoned by Achsheilah. The surprised demon awoke with a start and assessed Martin’s betrayal as the floor beneath his body began heating up, just as it had earlier, quickly progressing from a scorching red to a white hot intensity. A volley of curses and screams poured from the demon’s emancipated lips while Achsheilah, unaffected by the searing heat, calmly scrutinized Martin’s reaction to the scene.

  Stationed safely outside the magic sigil, and away from the furnace-like heat of its interior, Martin turned and retched, overcome by the stench of burning flesh. Wiping his mouth, he peered through the waverin
g heat at the incendiary horror his wife had become, aware now that the tortured screams he heard were no longer the demon’s but hers. He stood riveted to the hideous sight, watching Ellen’s pale soft form shrivel and blacken, then melt into a gelatinous pool of steaming gore, her disintegrating eyes fixed all the while upon her betrayer. Hours later, or so it seemed to Martin, the last traces of the incinerated victim finally evaporated in a puff of blackened smoke.

  “Wha … what about her soul?” Martin stammered hoarsely, barely able to speak.

  Disinterestedly, Achsheilah replied, “Her essence, or soul as you call it, has been cast into the Black Abyss where it will remain forever.”

  Martin felt a wave of guilt but shook it off immediately. What was done was done.

  “So it worked?” he tendered. “I am finally really free of Brachamashoot?”

  The griffin yawned an enormous yawn before responding. “He has been separated from the Ellen essence and has fled to another part of the same abyss. He cannot return unbidden.”

  Relieved, Martin smiled at the towering anomaly before him, subtle thoughts of power already reinfesting his brain. These thoughts were interrupted, however, when he suddenly became aware that money, paper money of varying denominations, had begun raining down upon him out of nowhere.

  “Achsheilah!” he cried, “what’s going on? What does this mean?”

  The griffin sighed, obviously quite bored, before explaining that Brachamashoot’s banishment did not preclude the fulfillment of Martin’s wishes. Although bested, the demon was acknowledging his continued obligation.

  Relieved, Martin laughed a little too loudly, then began gathering up the loose bills and gleefully stuffing them into his pockets. Yet a moment later, a troubled expression furrowed his brow and he stopped. Something, some unseen force, was tugging and pulling at him, dragging him inch by inch toward the perimeter of the magic circle.

  “Achsheilah!” he called out nervously, “stop pulling me toward you! What sort of foul trick is this?” he demanded angrily.