Book Of Sorcery

prologue

Thunder claps echo around the sky, booming against the shriek of windmills rotating in the wind. The storm begins to gradually get stronger, raindrops beginning to crescendo, the monotonous impinging of rain against metal breaking the still silence; the trees and bushes grinding against the metal siding of the old farmhouse shake and shriek, and begin to sound like nails grinding against chalkboards.

A man, old, wrinkled, and withered by time stood among several motionless figures, each hooded in long blood-red cascading cloaks. Men and women alike gather around the old man, and a young boy around the age of five walks in carrying an old book atop a velvet cushion. The binding and pages are torn, small creases on the pages, worn down by use and time through the centuries.

A gothic marble altar lit by candles sits in the center of a small circular room. Small decorations dot the chamber, each seeming to be centuries old. The hooded figures slowly circled the altar, chanting in unison. Each brandished a small knife, raising and lowering it in rhythm with the chorus.

The old priest approaches his stone altar, knife in one hand, a bright red glowing human heart in the other. He slashes down into the heart, and slits open his wrist. As the blood trickles down the others begin chanting again. “Rogo autem te, et vires natura tenebrarum, et aperi mihi odium in spatio, et facere quod impossibile est. Ita ut ostium apertum hoc mundo ut ruat.”

The chanting ceases, and a hoarse croaking voice thrums out over the chamber. “The time of our ascension has finally come. Brothers, sisters, our lord is coming, and we must prepare for our travel into the next world. Praise be to the book. Praise be to the shadow.”

The cloaked silhouettes echoed the priest. “Praise be to the book. Praise be to the shadow.” A gently glowing flame appears in the center of the room, slowly enveloping the altar. As the light begins to grow, the figures began to disappear one by one, a scream following as each one evaporates. The awful stench of burnt hair and flesh spreads across the room, smoke gathering around the epicenter of the flame.

The old priest rose from the center of the altar, smoke streaming into his eyes, mouth, and nose, and his low, growling voice booms over the chamber. His voice changed, now becoming that of a demon, and the raspy tone that comes only from centuries of smoke and fire replaces that which was his own.

“Aditus est apertus. Laus sit liber. Laus sit umbra.”

The flames disappeared as quickly as they had come, the priest dissipating with them. The chambers were still, the only things remaining were the book, a knife, and the memories of the horrors that happened here.