Michael Dery joined the Closed Circle
during his junior year of
college. It is not a coincidence that he did
not live to see the end of his senior
year. A precocious student, he had expressed interest
in the stranger
areas of psychology, as well as an almost childish
determination to prove the
existence of ghosts. Once he became an adult, in all
the ways that matter
in a court of law, he gave up the notion of ever proving
the existence of
ghosts; learning, as many other seekers of the supernatural
have learned
in their time, that ghosts must exist, simply because
it is impossible to
prove so. His poor health had kept him indoors during
his school years, but the relaxed atmosphere of the college campus eventually
drew him outside,
often for late-night walks through the central, park-like
area. It was often
misty, and the arc-sodiums cast muted yellow circles
of light that did more to
accentuate what could not be seen than help one see
anything. It was an
atmosphere of otherworldliness, of mystery, and it
drew Michael like iron
filings to a magnet. His thoughts slowly became strange
to him. His dreams
were filled with surreal crystalline cities traveling
sideways across
time.
He would wake from these dreams, filled with an unspoken
dread, and look
out the window to reassure himself of the reality
of the world outside. What
he would see would be a misty world of gambrel roofs
and antique steeples,
rising out of the mist like the bow of a sunken ship.
He would not find
this reassuring. About six months into his career
as a student, he suffered
what can only be termed a nervous breakdown. He was
found in the study lounge by a morning cleaning lady, chewing his fingernails
and muttering about shapes in the mist. The cleaning lady called the Hall
Assistant, who in turn called the campus police, who ended up carrying
Michael bodily into the campus hospital.
He was given a full psychological evaluation, counseling,
and a two-week
vacation at home. He returned looking infinitely better
and still
interested in attending classes, which he resumed
doing. To everyone involved, Michael Dery appeared a fine and happy student,
recovered from a slight
psychological breakdown.
Everyone was wrong.
Michael Dery was damaged goods,
a young man with a hairline fracture
running across the eggshell of his mind, a fracture
which let in the
smallest amount of light and air from the outside
world to swirl and dance within. In short, Michael was not quite right
in the head. Holy men of bygone times would have said: He has a demon within
him.
Quite right.
The days and months passed in a
haze of confusion and fear. His grades
were decent, plenty good to continue attending, and
no one questioned
where he went at night. It was a college campus, after
all. Long and long were
his walks through fog-shrouded alleys, some of which
he could not later find
on any campus map. He began to develop an obsession
with the layout of the
campus, and only managed to shake it when his grades
showed signs of
suffering. His dreams were terrifying abominations
from which he would
wake, covered in sweat, his nerves sizzling. And still
things progressed
normally. Until.
He was walking down a boulevard
of no particular name. The stone
beneath his feet was lit at intervals by archaic-looking
arc-sodiums, mockeries of the streetlamps of bygone days. He was deep in
thought, though he could
not have told the casual asker what he was thinking
about, when suddenly he
became aware of something being different. He did
not stop walking, but
took stock of everything that was around him, trying
to find what had alerted
him. Certainly there was nothing new to see, and nothing
to hear but the
clack-clack of his shoes on the cobblestones. Wait.
He was wearing soft
shoes. He whirled around and beheld a man in a black
coat of antique
design, following him. Following his steps exactly.
Michael stopped walking, waiting
for this intruder upon his world to
pass by him, or address him, or attack him, or what.
The man reached his
position, turned smartly, and held out a small white
card. Acting on the automatic urge so many people have ingrained in them,
Michael reached out and took the card.
"Do not fail to attend," intoned
the stranger in a smooth, if completely dull, voice.
"What?" asked Michael, but looked
up to find the stranger already
disappearing down a side street. He peered at the
card. It read: The
Closed Circle. Meeting held 10:30, Thursday Night.
Do Not Fail to Attend.
"I don't like him," muttered Greene
for the 15th time. "I think you're
making a mistake, McKellon."
Thad McKellon snorted. "Undoubtedly
you do, Charles, and this is why
it is a good thing that you are not in the position
to decide. Now be silent,
I am attempting to make a phone call."
Greene shut up.
"Ah, yes," said McKellon into the
mouthpiece of the phone. "May I
speak with Michael, please? Thank you." He paused.
"Hello, Michael. Please come to the meetinghouse at 10:30 tonight. Do not
fail to attend. Goodbye."
For a moment, the room was silent.
"He's coming," said McKellon. "Make
the preparations."
There were 24 of them in total.
McKellon presided over all, a huge man
with a curly beard and a face much like the Vikings
of old. His assistant,
Greene, was a ferrety little man with a furtive, nervous
disposition. The
two of them currently held the attention of the assembled
members of the
Closed Circle, who watched with polite expressions
while their fearless leader
recited the Chants of Welcoming. Before McKellon knelt
Michael Dery, his
head bowed. The only sound was that of the outlandish,
foreign speech McKellon was employing.
McKellon's voice rose in pitch,
the strange, garbled words coming with
greater and greater intensity, until it seemed a torrent
of words vomited
from his mouth, washing over the congregation like
a physical thing.
Suddenly, McKellon shut the book from which he read
with a resounding
-Bang!- and turned his eyes on Dery. "RISE!" He shouted,
lifting the book above his head.
Michael Dery rose, and McKellon
staggered back, his Viking face pale,
eyes wide.
No one spoke. Finally, he seemed
to regain something of himself, and
strode up to the boy, hands held out almost cautiously.
One of them
reached into his pocket and withdrew a necklace, a
series of three concentric
circles hanging from a fine silver chain. This he
extended out to the newest
member of The Closed Circle, and when he spoke, his
voice had only the slightest shake in it.
"Welcome to the Closed Circle."
Someone cheered.
McKellon looked haggard. There
were lines under his eyes where there
had been no lines before. He looked at Greene again.
"I do not think he should be present
for the summoning tomorrow."
Greene looked impassive. "Why?"
" I don't exactly know how to explain
it," McKellon muttered. "When
I swore him in when he rose, and looked at me, it
was as though I was
looking at two people. One of them was just him, just
some man, but the
other, the other was monstrous, Greene."
Greene's ferrety face showed nothing.
He had personally decided the
Viking was breaking down, and he wanted to make certain
the spot went to
him when McKellon left or was kicked out. "Just nerves,
maybe?"
"It was NOT just nerves. I know
what I saw, and I will not allow him
to attend tomorrow."
"The others may not take well to
that."
"To hell with the others."
"Hear me out, sir. You have never
done anything like this before. They
may think you are playing your own game, trying to
control who does and
does not attend, and you know they will not take kindly
to that."
"No," said McKellon dreamily. "I
suppose not."
"Just bring him along this time.
If something goes awry, your suspicions were valid, and you'll have every
right to keep him from the ceremonies."
The big man sighed. "I suppose
you're right."
They all saw it happen. When the
flux was at it's strongest, and each
of them glowed fiercely, like a copper wire, outlined
in blue flame, they saw
it happen. Dery began to scream. His coloration changed
from blue to a
piercing, blinding, crimson color. He threw back his
head and howled like an animal, thrashing about in the grip of the spell.
His eyes exploded, red light
pouring from the empty sockets. The tips of his fingers
sizzled, blackening.
The stench was unbearable. McKellon tried to stand,
but found himself
galvanized, his eyes glued to the atrocities being
committed on the body
of Michael Dery. The boy's shrieks became wild howls,
ululations no human set of lungs should have been able to produce. He whipped
his blind face back and forth wildly, his body shaking and dancing a sort
of manic, seated jig
outside the circle. The skin began to peel back from
his fingers in wide
strips, racing up his arms, his belly, his neck. The
exposed muscle
followed suit, pulling itself into the air in a balletic,
almost graceful manner.
Michael screamed on and on, his hands tattooing a
manic beat on the floor,
his tongue lolling from his screaming mouth. His fingers
were scored away,
their tips little more than bleary bone. The strips
of flesh and muscle
raced wildly across his body, chasing each other gaily,
peeling Michael like an
orange. Suddenly, his screams cut off, and he bit
down on his tongue with
enough force to shatter half his teeth, slicing the
tongue in half and
causing a great drool of blood to patter down his
chin. The strips accelerated, swirling wildly about until it seemed the
boy would be obscured in a tornado of his own flesh. Then, quite suddenly,
the whole mass rose, the screaming skull that had once been his face suspended
gently atop the whirling column, and floated into the circle. There was
a flash like lightning, followed by a hollow -BANG!- that seemed to shake
the world. Michael Dery was gone.
The panic that ensued was apocalyptic. Members fled
the house, screaming,
to all points of the compass. Only seven of the assembled
24 would ever meet
again. Of those who left, two would commit suicide
within the year. But
this is not important. What is important is what happened
immediately after the cataclysm.
While the others screamed and gibbered
and ran like scared geese, Charles
Greene cautiously approached the center of the circle
into which the Dery
boy had disappeared. Something white lay there. He
knelt down, and picked it up. It was a skull, undoubtedly that of the boy.
It held a strange, talismanic, quality for Greene, who picked it carefully
up and walked out of the house, which would be burnt to the ground by parties
unknown three days later.
Greene went home. He sat in his favourite rocking
chair. He cradled the
curious skull in his lap and examined it, turning
it this way and that. He
looked into its eye sockets.
"What happened, boy?"
The skull did not respond.
"You know what I think?"
The skull appeared not to know.
"I think you had a demon in you,
boy. McKellon was closer than he
thought, maybe. What do you think?"
The skull smiled. One might argue
that skulls cannot smile any more
than they already do, but nevertheless, in violation
of rational laws, the
skull grinned. Twin red lights sparkled in its eye
sockets and a voice coming
not from the skull but from within Greene's own head
chuckled.
I THINK YOU ARE CORRECT, it intoned.
Greene was not given time to scream.
The phone rang. McKellon stirred,
muttered thickly into his pillow,
and reached to answer it. On the other end was Greene.
"McKellon?" asked Greene's voice
timidly.
"What is it, Greene? Can't sleep?
I don't blame you"
"No, no it's just that I think
you should come take a look at this."
"What is it?"
"Please. You need to see this.
It's important."
McKellon sighed. "Alright," he
replied. "I'll be over in a bit."
"Thanks," said the voice of Greene,
and hung up.
The thing set the phone back on
its cradle. It was going to have such
fun in this world, oh yes it was.