Book 1 - Victoria House - Part 8 of 8
Mrs. Rabastandratana’s squeaky wheels and excited whoops tempered the fear storm spreading around the hall. Making her way to the front of the crowd, she leaped from her chair to perform a spasmodic jig in front of Rosie and the beast before taking a bow. My father’s face was incredulous, though fear had gripped him enough to not intervene. “Let’s sing a song from the old country” she bellowed joyously. The piano, still intact, became the new focal point in the room as Mrs. Rabasandratana launched into a haunting, operatic vocal and slammed her hands on the keys, creating an unholy din. The sounds were unsettling, with some residents placing hands over their ears and prompting knee-bending in others. My own bowels felt loosened by the performance and I saw my father massage his throat. The possessed Rosie clapped when the show was over. The beast lowered its head, and she thudded to the floor. She and Mrs. Rabasandratana spoke animatedly in a foreign tongue.
As they conversed, Rosie glanced at the beast and pointed to the crowd. Without hesitation, the worm moved toward the residents. Broad darted left, my father, gripping my shirt collar, pulled us right and onto our backs. Many of the residents didn’t move and were knocked heavily in one direction or the other by the beast’s thrashing. A path had been cleared, leaving a crouched and semi-naked Gary with his back turned.
The creature reared with the sound of an idle motorcycle, its head flowering to reveal its primary weapons. Laying on our sides, my father and I watched as Gary stood from his crouched position, revealing an unconscious Simon, wearing his purple shirt. With Rosie distracted by Mrs. Rabasandratana, the creature froze momentarily before darting forward. Inches from Gary - its maw opened wide enough to take Simon whole. A few seconds later, it burst into black vapour. It was over.
With the last of the original summoning group dead, the bargain had been broken. A piercing shriek filled the hall before Rosie vomited a viscous black liquid all over herself. She appeared confused as she scanned the room, then looked down at her dress.
“I need a bath. I’m dirty. I need a bath.”
Before too long, police and ambulance crews were all over the grounds of Victoria House. I sat in the reading corner, detached, hearing everything as if it were experienced in a cave; the sound of police radios, heated conversation, and anxious yelps combined to create an echoey white noise. I was trying to convince myself that the story we were all telling was true but couldn’t reconcile events in my head, despite having witnessed it all. The stupor was interrupted by my father, whose furious-looking face told me not to argue with whatever he said next.
“We’re going home. Say goodbye to whoever and be quick about it, please.”
I stood and saw a room full of people who seemingly had no idea I’d even been there, such was the terror. Mrs. Rabasandratana and Gary were by the bottle-green door. I waved to them as my father and I walked toward the reception exit. Gary waved back. Mrs. Rabasandratana, fists aloft, raised a middle finger on each and thrust them forward and back repeatedly like a gunslinger. As the double doors to the reception swung shut I hugged my father. His gigantic hand gently rubbed the back of my head.
“Come on. Your mother’s waiting.”
As we drove home, I noticed the clock on the dash said 3.33 am. Hours had passed since the beast disappeared, and I had lived those hours in a haze - my mind clambered for answers. I had never been to church outside of the occasional school nativity. Its overbearing symbology filled me with guilt. I was self-aware, knowledgeable enough to know how to treat people, smart enough to avoid needless conflict. I didn’t think I needed a church to know the true human condition. After the events of that day, I knew further still what people will do for themselves at the expense of others. It was about all I understood at that time.
On the drive home, I thought of Dermot. With eyes closed, I prayed to God for peace in his spirit. I asked to see him again. For an opportunity to love him.
As I shifted position in the back seat, I could feel the firmness of the Summonitores Libro pressing against my back. Surprised it was there, I removed it from my trousers and ran my hand across its fabric cover. How could something this evil appear so innocent? I knew then that nothing would be over until the Summonitores Libro was destroyed. Staring at me in the rear-view mirror, my father noticed the book in my hands, slammed on the brakes and turned in his seat.
“What’s that in your hands?”
“Dad . . . we need to burn it,” I said.
He opened the glove box to reveal a bottle of whiskey.
Standing in a meadow, my father and I watched as the Summonitores Libro burned. Howls, grunts, and screaming emanated from the smoke. The suffering of those who had encountered its empty promises and all of its cruelty, emptied into the impossibly dark meadows of rural Surrey. There, in the fire, the pale white woman from its pages; the true face of the demon, briefly appeared sporting a wry smile.
The books had survived through selfish endeavour and human curiosity. I had seen a little of what lies beyond. The world hidden from human view harboured great secrets, with the words of the Summonitores Libro lubricating doorways to its darkest places. I realised with her smirk, there would be many more copies of the text. Many more trapped souls. Many would succumb to its promise.
Twenty five years have passed since these events. I have spent the best part of the last ten purchasing and destroying as many copies as I could. I have written and recorded this testimony, sent my fathers recordings and notes as supporting evidence; I want to encourage a search of your archives. Please destroy any remaining copies of the Summonitores Libro. Thank you.
The recording ended in silence. Monsignor Vescari removed his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Outside, Rome’s bells tolled the Angelus. The air in the study felt charged, as if the words he had heard still lingered, unwilling to leave. On the desk, the CD spun its final rotation, whispering to a stop like a dying breath.
He sat motionless for a time, the letter open before him, until decision overcame caution. Rising, he gathered the disc and the papers, tucked them beneath his arm, and made his way toward the Apostolic Library. As he got close, something stopped him in his tracks. He turned his head toward a group photo hanging on the wall. He’d seen it thousands of times by now but some faint memory drew him to the names of the people in the image, written on yellowing postcard at the bottom of the frame. Scanning the card, what drew him to the image so suddenly, met his eye. He looked at the corresponding photo. Front row, second from the left. His eyes darted back to the name. Sister Rabasandratana.
Vescari drew breath sharply, turned and made his way to the library, urgent now. As he entered, the hum of the air systems filled his ears. At the last checkpoint, two Swiss Guards stepped aside in silence. He unlocked the narrow iron door of Archivio IX, a vault sealed since the nineteenth century, and descended into its cool heart until he reached the catalogue shelf. There, his eyes found a handwritten entry in fading ink:
“Summonitores Libro. De origine ignota. Deposited Anno Domini 1884, Index 47B.”
He followed the reference into a narrow aisle. On the lowest shelf rested a small oak chest bound with red ribbon, its surface dulled by dust. Kneeling, he traced the Latin etched across the lid, “De Daemonibus et Invocatione.” He hesitated only a moment before breaking the seal.
Inside were four slim volumes, the leather dry and flaking. For several seconds, he stared. Then he closed the chest, carried it to the furnace alcove adjoining the vault, and set it down.
He struck a match. The flame caught the dry wood instantly. Within moments, light spilled from the cracks of the oak, bright as molten metal. A low hum filled the chamber, rising to a vibration that shook the floor beneath his feet. From deep within the vault came a single shriek, thin and metallic - then another, closer. Vescari stepped back as the chest erupted. Fire licked upward, alive with motion, consuming the volumes with impossible speed.