them in this private shrine. But what kind of moron would do that? Why not sell them?”
“Someone who’s obsessed,” Bumby murmured.
“Lester doesn’t even
read
,” Papa said. “I just don’t—I just don’t see him doing this, you know?”
“Did you notice this is the only place in the house that isn’t dusty? He probably lives down here.”
Papa pointed. “You may be right, I just noticed that door in the corner. If it’s a bedroom I’m gonna be creeped out.”
Bumby was staring at the memorabilia with a look of sublime awe, like he was watching his savior drift down from heaven.
“C’mon, Bums. Let’s finish up here, grab some stuff and get out. And don’t give me any shit about taking anything, because it’s already stolen.”
Bumby still didn’t say anything, and Papa jerked him around, snapping him out of his trance. “Sure,” Bumby mumbled.
The door in the corner, a narrow wooden door cut into the cement wall, was unlocked. There was a light switch beside the door, and Papa flicked it. A dull glow seeped beneath the door. Papa turned the knob and stepped through.
When he saw what was inside, he put a hand on the wall for support. “Oh hell. Oh sweet Jesus.”
Bumby stepped through and gasped.
The walls of the boxy room were lined with black cloth. There was a bookshelf against the wall to the right and a couple of antique storage trunks along the wall to the left, but it was the thing against the far wall that stole their breath and leeched their courage: a two-tiered, black-painted wooden altar sitting underneath an obsidian pentagram. Two human skulls sat on the top ledge of the altar, and hanging underneath them was the centerpiece: an upside down cross covered with dark stains and draped with a necklace of tiny cat skulls. Gutted candles stood on either side of the two larger skulls, and on the bottom ledge was a black-and-white photograph lying on top of an aged tome covered in mystic sigils.
Papa was crouching with a shocked face, as if he had just defecated. He reached towards one of the two bleach-white human skulls, stopping just before he touched it.
Bumby approached the altar with faltering steps, his drained white face next to the black cloth of the walls giving him a ghoulish appearance. He picked up the photograph and let out a long, wrenching moan.
Papa snatched the photo out of his hands. It was a photo of Hemingway typing in his writing studio. Papa read the title of the book underneath the photo:
Magicke Rituals For Summoning and Binding
.
A page was marked, and he flipped to it. The entire page was highlighted, and he started reading out loud. “It is best to bind the summoned spirit to a physical location known well to the entity. To bind the spirit, two sacrifices must first be taken by the aforementioned ritual, their blood poured into the chalice and quaffed, their skulls placed atop the altar—”
Papa threw the book down as if it were diseased. “Sick bastards. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Bumby had grown so pale he looked as if he were about to faint, and a catatonic sheen glazed his eyes. Papa slapped him across the face. “Bumby! Forget about that twisted mumbo-jumbo shit. We’re getting out of here,
now
.”
Papa pulled Bumby out of the ritual room and back into the room with the memorabilia. Papa left Bumby standing by the ladder to the living room like an automaton, then went and scooped up the photos and two of the notebooks. He clutched them to his chest and pushed Bumby up the ladder with his other hand. When they reached the common room, Papa closed the trap door and threw the rug in place.
Just as Papa started for the front door it flung open, and Lester stood in the doorway with a shotgun. Papa managed to take his gun out of the back of his pants just as Lester blew a hole in his chest and sent him flopping across the room in a bloody heap.
Papa’s gun landed a few feet from Bumby, and Bumby snapped out of his trance and dove
“Someone who’s obsessed,” Bumby murmured.
“Lester doesn’t even
read
,” Papa said. “I just don’t—I just don’t see him doing this, you know?”
“Did you notice this is the only place in the house that isn’t dusty? He probably lives down here.”
Papa pointed. “You may be right, I just noticed that door in the corner. If it’s a bedroom I’m gonna be creeped out.”
Bumby was staring at the memorabilia with a look of sublime awe, like he was watching his savior drift down from heaven.
“C’mon, Bums. Let’s finish up here, grab some stuff and get out. And don’t give me any shit about taking anything, because it’s already stolen.”
Bumby still didn’t say anything, and Papa jerked him around, snapping him out of his trance. “Sure,” Bumby mumbled.
The door in the corner, a narrow wooden door cut into the cement wall, was unlocked. There was a light switch beside the door, and Papa flicked it. A dull glow seeped beneath the door. Papa turned the knob and stepped through.
When he saw what was inside, he put a hand on the wall for support. “Oh hell. Oh sweet Jesus.”
Bumby stepped through and gasped.
The walls of the boxy room were lined with black cloth. There was a bookshelf against the wall to the right and a couple of antique storage trunks along the wall to the left, but it was the thing against the far wall that stole their breath and leeched their courage: a two-tiered, black-painted wooden altar sitting underneath an obsidian pentagram. Two human skulls sat on the top ledge of the altar, and hanging underneath them was the centerpiece: an upside down cross covered with dark stains and draped with a necklace of tiny cat skulls. Gutted candles stood on either side of the two larger skulls, and on the bottom ledge was a black-and-white photograph lying on top of an aged tome covered in mystic sigils.
Papa was crouching with a shocked face, as if he had just defecated. He reached towards one of the two bleach-white human skulls, stopping just before he touched it.
Bumby approached the altar with faltering steps, his drained white face next to the black cloth of the walls giving him a ghoulish appearance. He picked up the photograph and let out a long, wrenching moan.
Papa snatched the photo out of his hands. It was a photo of Hemingway typing in his writing studio. Papa read the title of the book underneath the photo:
Magicke Rituals For Summoning and Binding
.
A page was marked, and he flipped to it. The entire page was highlighted, and he started reading out loud. “It is best to bind the summoned spirit to a physical location known well to the entity. To bind the spirit, two sacrifices must first be taken by the aforementioned ritual, their blood poured into the chalice and quaffed, their skulls placed atop the altar—”
Papa threw the book down as if it were diseased. “Sick bastards. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Bumby had grown so pale he looked as if he were about to faint, and a catatonic sheen glazed his eyes. Papa slapped him across the face. “Bumby! Forget about that twisted mumbo-jumbo shit. We’re getting out of here,
now
.”
Papa pulled Bumby out of the ritual room and back into the room with the memorabilia. Papa left Bumby standing by the ladder to the living room like an automaton, then went and scooped up the photos and two of the notebooks. He clutched them to his chest and pushed Bumby up the ladder with his other hand. When they reached the common room, Papa closed the trap door and threw the rug in place.
Just as Papa started for the front door it flung open, and Lester stood in the doorway with a shotgun. Papa managed to take his gun out of the back of his pants just as Lester blew a hole in his chest and sent him flopping across the room in a bloody heap.
Papa’s gun landed a few feet from Bumby, and Bumby snapped out of his trance and dove
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