"But under the name of Magick are all unlawful arts

                        comprehended; as necromancy and witchcraft

                                   and such arts which are effected by

                                      combination with the Devil

                                       and whereof he is a party.”

 

 

                                   Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy

                                                           Preface

                                          Henrich Cornelius Agrippa

                                                            1559

 

West Haven Apartments -- Construction Zone

99 Oakdale Lane

North Royalton, Ohio

3:07 a.m.

 

“This is a bad idea. What the hell am I doing?”

 

Dean Quinlan whispered that cotton-mouthed mantra over and over, every other step. He swept the darkness with his flashlight, straining to make out shapes in the woods. At three a.m., everything looked like something else. Fingers reaching through the moonlight. Skeletons in the distance. A corpse sprawled across fallen leaves.

 

All just trees. Black and barren. Tormented by the moaning wind. Not a single thing out of the ordinary. He knew that. But it didn’t stop his hands trembling. Or the thumps in his chest and the echoes in his ears. Cold sweat on the back of his neck. 

 

He’d only been out there a few minutes. Ten, tops. Already felt like an hour. No sense of time anymore. Not since the accident flipped his life upside down. Everything moved in slow motion now. Or lightspeed. Nothing in-between.

 

Especially those fucking emails.

 

For hours, there’d be silence. Sometimes a whole day. Then it would hit. Each one worse than the last. A ping at two-seventeen in the morning this time. Not that he could sleep anyway. Even so, he made sure there was no way to miss it. That triple chime on his phone buzzing on vibrate mode. iPhone glass and steel rattled his nightstand.            

 

Mr. Quinlan,

 

My compliments on your work. Already the message has spread far and wide. With your continued assistance, I have no doubt that we will soon be heard in all corners.

 

Tonight, the First Annunciation commences. As Dante wrote: “Soon you will be where your own eyes will see the source and cause and give you their own answer to the mystery.”

 

To that end: She’s waiting for you.

 

H.C. Agrippa

 

A hyperlink below the sign-off connected to his Maps app, pointing to a spot just a few miles from his condo. Some new high end apartment complex under development. Lots of half-built structures and outlines of streets. Surrounded by forest.

 

Dean pushed ahead. The wind cut through him. His foot slipped. The torch dropped from his hand. He crouched, cold fingers gripping the shaft. But he didn’t pick it up. First, he took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. The instant he opened them he saw the reflection.

 

Close to the ground. Shiny and metallic. Something that didn’t belong in the woods. He aimed the flashlight through the branches.

 

A bracelet maybe. He came to his feet, edged closer. It was jewelry. He saw a foot, then an ankle. A ring of diamonds and silver hanging from a bare leg.

 

She’s waiting for you.

 

The air went out of his lungs. Punched in the gut. Dean forced himself to keep going. On the slimmest chance it wasn’t too late. The moment he got near enough though, he knew. Skin pale, limbs frozen. She was dead. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

 

He remembered her face. And the moment he killed her.