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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Movie Steps Off the Screen"  That freaked-out feeling fades as the evening wears on, and though you have some uncomfortable moments after you're in bed and the lights are out—there's a deep shadow in the far corner of your room by the closet, and even after you shut your eyes and turn onto your side you suffer an eight-year-old's terror that something vast and hideous may put its head out from it—you quickly fall asleep. You're jumpy all through church, though. Until now you have been thinking of your project as a kind of scientific lark, like playing around with toy rockets or building a homemade weather station. But if it's the same sort of occult stuff that Sydney is interested in, and if the occult stuff she inherited from her dad is related to an actual supernatural entity, then that changes the complexion of the thing. Until now the sanctuary of St. Michael's Episcopal Church, where your family worships, was just a place to slouch and doze while wearing itchy pants. Now you feel like an interloper, or a spy. * * * * * "Does it bother you going to church?" you ask Sydney later that afternoon, when you've met at the old elementary school again. You had texted to apologize for being late in meeting her; she had replied it was okay because she had church too. She shrugs. "It's not my idea to go, but what the hey, right? My dad took us to church when he was alive." "But it doesn't seem, I dunno, blasphemous?" "No, because I don't believe in any of it. Whatever we're playing with is just another natural phenomenon, Will. Nothing's out there going to eat us or smite us." You wonder if she really is quite so blase as she acts. There's an edge to her words. If she really didn't care about the contradiction between going to church and studying the arcane rituals and knowledges of the Brotherhood of Baphomet, then why would it make her upset when you called her on those contradictions? Well, whatever. You unlock the basement door and lead her down into it. She's brought those notebooks that she promised to show you, and the basement seems like the best place to hide out and study them together. The earthen pile has gone out again, but it's fooled you so many times already that you only sigh. Sydney starts setting out the books as you snap the cigarette lighter and put it to the pile. Nothing happens. You don't let yourself feel excited though, and it's with irritation that you put the flame first to one place and then another without result. You are about to let your hopes rise when with a whoosh the fire catches. Then it gutters and goes out. You look back at Sydney. She is bent over the conference table and watching you with a pinched but alert expression. You hold each other's gaze for a moment. Then you return to playing with the lighter. After a solid minute of trying to reignite the thing, you give up. It seems to be done. * * * * * Baphomet is forgotten in the excitement that follows. You pull the grimoire out from under the thing that it has made, and the pages flop about as with trembling fingers you show Sydney your great prize. "Okay, this is the spell that makes a mask," you tell her. "This one seals it up. This one, uh, this is the one that makes that metal band that copies peoples' brains and personalities—" "So it says," she needles you. "This one lets you glue the metal bands into the masks. This one— Hang on." Two of the pages had turned together, and you flip one of them back. "This— Oh yeah, this is the one that we just did, that made that thing." You jerk your chin at the lawn cigar. "And this next one—" That's when you realize that you really have succeeded at the last spell. The page has unlocked. You leap about, crowing, and Sydney beams when you explain to her why you're so excited. "So what did it make?" she asks. "Won't it tell you now?" "Yeah! Break out your browser, let's do a translation!" The other side of the locked page is covered in a long and complicated paragraph that has to be run through the translation software, and you and Sydney argue over some of the translation choices. She's the one who makes the breakthrough that lets you understand it, though. "It's a kind of golem," she says, and quickly explains when you return her a puzzled frown. "They're like robots, but made out of clay. Jewish legend says that you can make one and imbue it with life, and it will do what you command it to do. But with this one—" She gestures at the thing. "You imbue it with life by putting a mask on it. That's what the pedisequos it's talking about actually is. That thing on the table is just the shell for one. You put the mask onto it, it turns into the person who's inside the mask, and then you've got yourself a slave. A footman, like it says, who'll do what you tell it to do." You bend over the thing. Now that you know what you're looking at, you understand what you're seeing. The "lawn cigar" is bigger and broader than a human being, but it has the rough shape of one. That rent up the middle? That separates the thing's legs. Those rents up the sides? Those separate the arms from the torso. The onion-shaped lump at the top? A head. You put your hand on it. It's cold and hard and lifeless. But if you put a mask onto it— "Quick, hand me Caleb's mask," you bark at Sydney. Then— "Shit!" Your palm is covered in a fine, talcum-like dust. "The book says we have to polish it, right?" You groan inwardly. If it took forty-five minutes to polish a mask, it could take days or even weeks to polish this giant turd. Fortunately, it turns out to be nothing near as intense. A light dusting with a rag over the surface removes the grime and leaves it gleaming like marble. You and Sydney exchange bright, shining glances as you set Caleb's mask onto the head of the thing. It vanishes, like a plate slipping into a pond, leaving neither ripple nor bubble. Caleb Johansson—naked and bony—is now lying where the golem had been. He winces and opens his eyes. He looks around. When his gaze settles on Sydney, he bolts upright and covers his crotch with his hands. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaims. "Maybe I should leave you two to get acquainted," Sydney giggles. "I already know this cocksucker," you retort. Then, idiotically, you ask it, "What's your name?" "Caleb Johansson," it replies. Then it does a full-body flinch and grabs its head. "Fuck!" It quickly covers its crotch again. "What's wrong?" "Freaking deja vu, man!" It shakes its head violently, like a dog shaking off water. "I've had a couple of other people in here with me, right?" It looks at you with a pale face. "Like I was being possessed?" The phrase gives you a chill—a reminder of yesterday's freak-out about Baphomet. But you quickly set golem-Caleb straight. "It's the mask," you tell it. "You're a fake, a copy of Caleb." You peer at it. "Do you remember crashing a couple of parties a few weeks ago? Getting thrown out?" It makes a face. "Yeah." "And having a study session with Sydney at The Crystal Cave?" "Sure, I remember all that," it says. "Happened like it was yesterday." It licks its lips. Sydney jumps in. "What's the last thing you remember?" It glances around uneasily. "Being in here. Talking with you, Will. Talking about, uh, you and me and Keith. You were giving me my own fucking biography and I was talking about ... my dad?" Its brow crinkles. "And my mom's new husband? All my friends on the tennis and volleyball teams and in the orchestra?" It licks its lips again. "That's what I mean about being possessed!" "Where do you live?" you ask it. "What's your mom's name? Who was our eighth grade math teacher?" Golem-Caleb answers all the questions quickly and correctly. "It's got all his memories," you tell Sydney. "It's acting just like him, too." "Bully for me," golem-Caleb says. "Now can you fill in some fucking gaps? Like what the fuck is going on with me?" * * * * * So you explain to it that it's a copy of Caleb given independent life. A few tests—ordering it to punch itself in the nuts—also demonstrate that it is entirely obedient to your commands. Sydney's commands, though, it ignores. "Must be because I crafted it," you say after you've removed the mask from the golem, restoring the thing to its raw state. "Or, hang on, I used my hair in the spell. Maybe that's it." "Congratulations, Will," Sydney says. She puts out her hand. "You're a father." "Oh, bite me," you mutter. Your heart freezes for an instant at the words, but Sydney only laughs. "It's really an interesting thing," she says. "Really useful. Lots of possibilities." "Like?" "Oh, come on, Will, use your imagination. It's a remote-controlled copy of your best friend. It could be a remote-controlled copy of whoever you want it to be, as long as you get a mask of them. You can send it out to do stuff, send it out to pretend to be whoever." She crosses her arms and slowly paces the basement. Her eyes flick back and forth. "You could replace the original person, even, with one of these things," she murmurs. The words rise like a shriek in your throat. "I'm not replacing Caleb!" "Oh, I'm not talking about Caleb," she retorts. "I told you there's someone I need to get back at." She turns to stare at the golem. "Everyone thought my dad died in an accident," she says. "But it was murder. And with a thing like this, I could get rid of the guy who did it, and no one would even suspect he'd been killed!" * To tell Sydney you want no part in a killing: "Killing a Mood" * To help Sydney kill her father's murderer: "Corpses and Killers" |
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