‘Macabre’ the reviewers had written! The wizened old man shuffled across his antique dressing room in New York City, newspaper in hand. Why in his youth he had been the toast of the town and his magic celebrated. As a young man, he had studied with the great Harry Blackstone, Sr.. And though Houdini had passed away a year before his birth, he had also been a great influence nonetheless. This was before television, the Internet, and next generation technologies. In those days, he had been greatly celebrated and his arrival eagerly anticipated.
Now, after more than 30 years in retirement he had returned for three final performances and been laughed off the stage. Nothing was sacred anymore. Magicians with a fraction of his ability and experience had revealed the trades’ secrets decades ago. The audience didn’t understand or appreciate his classic magic show any longer. They wanted 21st century special effects. The old man looked down at his aged hands. His day had long passed. But to call his refined and well rehearsed performance macabre was irreverent.
He reached into an old travel case and rooted amongst his magic paraphernalia until he found what he was looking for. Holding the bottle to the light, he tried to peer through the black glass but saw nothing. The seal still appeared as fresh as the day he had received it. Across the front, in the Scottish Gaelic highland language, read simply ‘a temptation for your time of utmost need.’
His mind wandered back to that night. Exiting the stage with a thunderous applause so great it shook the hall, he had pushed his way past celebrities and reviewers seeking escape from their enthusiasm in the confines of his dressing room. It had been his greatest performance and as he began removing his makeup, he noticed an older gentleman sitting in the corner of his dressing room calmly staring at him.
“May I help you Sir?” he had asked somewhat shocked. The man smiled and informed him that he was Aleister Crowley. “You mean the great beast himself,” he had responded, involuntarily blushing as he said it.
Mr. Crowley had simply smiled again and responded, “the very one.” They had talked for a while until finally Aleister had carefully placed in his hands the bottle and told him it was good for one and one use only and to use choose the occasion carefully because the consequences could be simply “dreadful” as he put it. He then excused himself and left. The old man had suspected a practical joke of some kind but kept the bottle as a memento of their meeting. And now, almost forgotten after all these years, he held it again. He slipped the bottle into a pocket of his aged trench coat and headed for the stage.
When he arrived, the hall was filled to capacity. The derisive reviews of his first two performances were the talk of the town and had drawn a crowd. But the audience was not here to cheer him. They were here to mock him.
The hecklers began first. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he went through the sleight of hand portion of his performance. Though it was customary at this point to ask for a member of the audience to participate, he decided not to take the risk as the heckling turned to jeers. He performed a stage trick instead.
The taunting increased until one balding drunk in the front row finally stood and yelled “Hey you old relic! For your next trick why don’t you make yourself disappear!” The crowd rolled with laughter. It was too much for the old man.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he slipped out the bottle. He broke the seal and pulled out the glass stopper. Instantly the atmosphere around him changed as some unseen evil manifested. The air grew very cold and seemed electrified in some strange way. A malevolent presence encompassed the hall quieting the audience.
Slowly at first a plume of smoke rose from the bottle. The color was of the blackest night the old man had ever seen. For a moment he was tempted to stop it with his hand but a sixth sense restrained him from such a foolish act. The plume of smoke formed into a large black cloud and floated over the audience. A woman screamed and tried to escape through an emergency exit. The unseen force held all avenues of escape shut. She sobbed and sank to the ground. Dread gripped the audience and they remained in their seats. The old man looked at the cloud. There was really no rational explanation for it.
Without warning a bolt of energy burst from the cloud and struck him. The audience groaned. He stumbled around the stage for a moment then regained his composure. He walked to the center of the stage and surveyed the crowd. As he looked into their faces he became aware that he now knew everything about them. Everything. His feelings of failure and despair vanished.
The crowd recoiled in fear as the old man chuckled and strode to the edge of the stage. Yes the worm had certainly turned. He spoke loud enough so that everyone could hear him. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for my next act I will read your minds.”
Walking from one end of the stage to the other, he began pointing out people and revealing their most shocking secrets. The lies, infidelities, and twisted acts were exposed for all to see. This took awhile. Once while revealing a peculiar secret of the balding drunken man who had jeered him earlier, he was almost assaulted. The man’s face had turned bright red. He jumped up, yelled, and attempted to climb onto the stage. Instantly a bolt of energy shot forth from the black cloud and punched a neat cylindrical hole right in the middle of the man’s chest. He collapsed backwards lifelessly his head making a sick sound as it struck the floor.
The old man paused but then continued on until every dirty secret had been revealed. When finished he said simply, “That concludes tonight’s performance ladies and gentlemen,” bowed, slipped the empty bottle back into his pocket, and left via a back exit. He never returned for his equipment and was never seen again. The black cloud floated around the room crackling with energy and scaring everyone for about an hour before finally dissipating. Only then did the crowd rush the exits. One thing was certain, no one present for the old man’s last magic show was ever the same.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Party People
Brad woke suddenly. The recurring nightmares had haunted his childhood. After all these years, they troubled him again. He reached for one of the towels next to his bed and wiped away the perspiration. For some reason his thoughts turned to his late great-grandfather. He had been a professional magician, a real one, very different from the Vegas-style entertainers of today. Self-assured, the old man’s presence had always comforted him. Unfortunately he hadn’t been heard from in years and most thought him dead. Brad lie back on the sheets and remembered the strange twinkle his great-grandfather’s eyes held.
The doctors in the next room went through a lengthy series of safety procedures. First they put on surgical scrubs followed by several pairs of latex gloves closed and taped securely at the wrists. Over this went a self-contained suit fitted with a facemask. Plugged into the side of the suit was a tightly coiled air pipe attached to a backpack unit. Only then did they open the outer door to the isolation room and cautiously enter.
Brad turned on the hospital bed as they approached. It was hard to move in his weakened condition. “Good morning Brad,” the doctor nearest him spoke, “Dr. Anderson and I are going to take some readings this morning if that’s ok with you.” Brad waved them closer. He was used to the daily routine. The doctors went to work. Had it only been three weeks since the party? Three weeks… unbelievable, he thought. That fateful day…
It had all started well enough. An early riser, Brad enjoyed a light breakfast on his sun deck. Spring was perfect this year and he determined to make the most of it. So afterwards, he went for a walk. His neighborhood was typical of the newer upper middle class homes around the country. Stately homes with well kept lawns lined by short fences amply surrounded by shrubs and flowers. But for some reason, sidewalks were hard to find. Brad did not know if the lack of sidewalks was deliberately planned to discourage people who couldn’t afford to live in these neighborhoods from entering them, but suspected it was so. In any event, he walked across the lawns of his neighbors where necessary.
Whistling while he went, Brad soon found himself tromping across the lawn of the Thompkins estate. Mrs. Thompkins was a fifty-something busy body known for her active involvement in various local social organizations. Upon sighting Brad, her Terrier tore across the lawn barking wildly.
Looking down at the little Terrier, Brad leaned on the four-foot picket fence and laughed. He never understood why old ladies like these little lap dogs. Their high-pitched barks aside, they certainly weren’t a deterrent. He turned to resume his walk when, all of a sudden, the Terrier leapt high in the air, bit him decisively on the arm and hung on for dear life. Brad cursed with pain as his arm spasmed. He grabbed the dog by its throat and forced it to release. Involuntarily, almost blindly, he flung the animal into the fence so hard that he accidentally killed it.
Then Brad took off his cashmere sweater and used it to apply pressure to his arm. He stood there dumbly examining the dog’s lifeless body. It was dead all right. That’s when he heard the scream. Mrs. Thompkins apparently had seen some portion of the struggle through her kitchen window and was shrieking hysterically while calling the police. Brad sat down on the curb and waited for them to arrive. It was going to be a long day.
Strangely, that evening had started well too. It was Fiona’s 28th birthday and they were having a party for her. Fiona was the wife of Gerald Sherrel a wealthy attorney, author, speaker, and their neighbor. The couple was wildly popular among the community’s social elite. These parties were social in nature and thrown for personal reasons, but they had serious business facets. People used these occasions and the guest lists were carefully prepared.
Which was why Brad now wondered if everything that had happened in the past three weeks was some divine judgment against them. After all, almost the entire social elite of their community had been in attendance. But no, he decided that couldn’t be. Collectively they were good people with most involved in some charity or other. And exclusion was necessary to create safe environments where people could feel comfortable. Still, Brad knew that most of them were emotionally removed from those outside their social circles. And there had been disturbing incidents like the fire three years ago at the Myers estate. Mrs. Meyers had immediately rushed to rescue an expensive painting before sounding the alarm. Her decision to rescue the painting first resulted in the unfortunate death of their maid. Brad felt a cold shiver creep up his back as he remembered Mrs. Meyer’s justifications. Yet, the party had been quite a gala and the handpicked guests mulling about talking, socializing, eating catered delicacies and drinking imported Champaign.
Only in hindsight, was it odd that nobody noticed the stranger. Brad first spotted him by the caterer with a huge plate of food. He was heavy and wore polyester clothes that could have come from a thrift store. His hair was combed to the side in a feeble attempt to cover a large balding spot. Brad wondered what the man was doing there but said nothing. The stranger, however, caught him looking and immediately walked over. He precariously balanced the huge plate of food with one hand and brought the other up for a handshake. Brad glimpsed a strange rash on the man’s arm but his social conditioning was so ingrained to avoid a direct offense that he automatically shook hands. The man grinned displaying a case of gingivitis. Brad excused himself and walked away.
Later in the evening, Brad started thinking about the man and the strange rash. Panicky, he spent considerable time in the bathroom washing and rewashing his hands with antibacterial soap until he was sure there was no way he could be affected by whatever condition the stranger had. Brad then mingled the rest of the evening talking about business and current events as usual.
Frequently he would spot the obnoxious individual approach people with the constantly refilled plate of food and shake hands with them. It was like a compulsion with him. The look of revulsion on their faces was always evident yet they always shook the stranger’s hand. More than once he felt compelled to warn the guests but fear restrained him. Not fear of the stranger, but fear of embarrassing himself. The stranger could be one of the well-heeled guest’s uncles or perhaps he was the black sheep so to speak. Brad was no different than anyone else at the party that evening. Not one of them was going to risk losing face with so many important people in attendance. Their world was carefully built and Brad, like the others, continued to merely observe the stranger.
Finally, around 10pm the stranger simply left. Brad breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out that no one had known him. One thing was sure; the stranger wouldn’t be able to stay the next time. Brad was confident now the stranger would be asked to leave if he ever appeared again. That was how it worked.
The night ended on a seemingly good note and everyone left at the appropriate hour. Brad went home and slept soundly. The next morning he enjoyed a normal day at the office and then another good night’s sleep. That, however, was the last good night sleep he would ever have. The recurring childhood nightmares began the next evening.
And the day after that, he was horrified to discover that the body of the strange uninvited guest had been found behind a gas station near the Sherrel estate. The local newspaper reported that the stranger, a pet storeowner vacationing in the area succumbed to some deadly variation of a virus. The authorities moved in destroying everything and isolating everyone associated with the body.
Apparently, the virus was not contagious until its later stages and the only people affected were those at the party. The authorities found small bite marks on him and believed an animal host was responsible for transferring the virus. Since there was no cure, they were isolated. Within three weeks, all were dead. All, that is, except Brad who was very close to dead. He looked at the rash, which now covered 50% of his body. Sobbing, he wondered what had become of his great-grandfather.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
The doctors in the next room went through a lengthy series of safety procedures. First they put on surgical scrubs followed by several pairs of latex gloves closed and taped securely at the wrists. Over this went a self-contained suit fitted with a facemask. Plugged into the side of the suit was a tightly coiled air pipe attached to a backpack unit. Only then did they open the outer door to the isolation room and cautiously enter.
Brad turned on the hospital bed as they approached. It was hard to move in his weakened condition. “Good morning Brad,” the doctor nearest him spoke, “Dr. Anderson and I are going to take some readings this morning if that’s ok with you.” Brad waved them closer. He was used to the daily routine. The doctors went to work. Had it only been three weeks since the party? Three weeks… unbelievable, he thought. That fateful day…
It had all started well enough. An early riser, Brad enjoyed a light breakfast on his sun deck. Spring was perfect this year and he determined to make the most of it. So afterwards, he went for a walk. His neighborhood was typical of the newer upper middle class homes around the country. Stately homes with well kept lawns lined by short fences amply surrounded by shrubs and flowers. But for some reason, sidewalks were hard to find. Brad did not know if the lack of sidewalks was deliberately planned to discourage people who couldn’t afford to live in these neighborhoods from entering them, but suspected it was so. In any event, he walked across the lawns of his neighbors where necessary.
Whistling while he went, Brad soon found himself tromping across the lawn of the Thompkins estate. Mrs. Thompkins was a fifty-something busy body known for her active involvement in various local social organizations. Upon sighting Brad, her Terrier tore across the lawn barking wildly.
Looking down at the little Terrier, Brad leaned on the four-foot picket fence and laughed. He never understood why old ladies like these little lap dogs. Their high-pitched barks aside, they certainly weren’t a deterrent. He turned to resume his walk when, all of a sudden, the Terrier leapt high in the air, bit him decisively on the arm and hung on for dear life. Brad cursed with pain as his arm spasmed. He grabbed the dog by its throat and forced it to release. Involuntarily, almost blindly, he flung the animal into the fence so hard that he accidentally killed it.
Then Brad took off his cashmere sweater and used it to apply pressure to his arm. He stood there dumbly examining the dog’s lifeless body. It was dead all right. That’s when he heard the scream. Mrs. Thompkins apparently had seen some portion of the struggle through her kitchen window and was shrieking hysterically while calling the police. Brad sat down on the curb and waited for them to arrive. It was going to be a long day.
Strangely, that evening had started well too. It was Fiona’s 28th birthday and they were having a party for her. Fiona was the wife of Gerald Sherrel a wealthy attorney, author, speaker, and their neighbor. The couple was wildly popular among the community’s social elite. These parties were social in nature and thrown for personal reasons, but they had serious business facets. People used these occasions and the guest lists were carefully prepared.
Which was why Brad now wondered if everything that had happened in the past three weeks was some divine judgment against them. After all, almost the entire social elite of their community had been in attendance. But no, he decided that couldn’t be. Collectively they were good people with most involved in some charity or other. And exclusion was necessary to create safe environments where people could feel comfortable. Still, Brad knew that most of them were emotionally removed from those outside their social circles. And there had been disturbing incidents like the fire three years ago at the Myers estate. Mrs. Meyers had immediately rushed to rescue an expensive painting before sounding the alarm. Her decision to rescue the painting first resulted in the unfortunate death of their maid. Brad felt a cold shiver creep up his back as he remembered Mrs. Meyer’s justifications. Yet, the party had been quite a gala and the handpicked guests mulling about talking, socializing, eating catered delicacies and drinking imported Champaign.
Only in hindsight, was it odd that nobody noticed the stranger. Brad first spotted him by the caterer with a huge plate of food. He was heavy and wore polyester clothes that could have come from a thrift store. His hair was combed to the side in a feeble attempt to cover a large balding spot. Brad wondered what the man was doing there but said nothing. The stranger, however, caught him looking and immediately walked over. He precariously balanced the huge plate of food with one hand and brought the other up for a handshake. Brad glimpsed a strange rash on the man’s arm but his social conditioning was so ingrained to avoid a direct offense that he automatically shook hands. The man grinned displaying a case of gingivitis. Brad excused himself and walked away.
Later in the evening, Brad started thinking about the man and the strange rash. Panicky, he spent considerable time in the bathroom washing and rewashing his hands with antibacterial soap until he was sure there was no way he could be affected by whatever condition the stranger had. Brad then mingled the rest of the evening talking about business and current events as usual.
Frequently he would spot the obnoxious individual approach people with the constantly refilled plate of food and shake hands with them. It was like a compulsion with him. The look of revulsion on their faces was always evident yet they always shook the stranger’s hand. More than once he felt compelled to warn the guests but fear restrained him. Not fear of the stranger, but fear of embarrassing himself. The stranger could be one of the well-heeled guest’s uncles or perhaps he was the black sheep so to speak. Brad was no different than anyone else at the party that evening. Not one of them was going to risk losing face with so many important people in attendance. Their world was carefully built and Brad, like the others, continued to merely observe the stranger.
Finally, around 10pm the stranger simply left. Brad breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out that no one had known him. One thing was sure; the stranger wouldn’t be able to stay the next time. Brad was confident now the stranger would be asked to leave if he ever appeared again. That was how it worked.
The night ended on a seemingly good note and everyone left at the appropriate hour. Brad went home and slept soundly. The next morning he enjoyed a normal day at the office and then another good night’s sleep. That, however, was the last good night sleep he would ever have. The recurring childhood nightmares began the next evening.
And the day after that, he was horrified to discover that the body of the strange uninvited guest had been found behind a gas station near the Sherrel estate. The local newspaper reported that the stranger, a pet storeowner vacationing in the area succumbed to some deadly variation of a virus. The authorities moved in destroying everything and isolating everyone associated with the body.
Apparently, the virus was not contagious until its later stages and the only people affected were those at the party. The authorities found small bite marks on him and believed an animal host was responsible for transferring the virus. Since there was no cure, they were isolated. Within three weeks, all were dead. All, that is, except Brad who was very close to dead. He looked at the rash, which now covered 50% of his body. Sobbing, he wondered what had become of his great-grandfather.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
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