A Sorcerer's Misstep

Charles was always fascinated by the macabre and the occult. So too had he always pondered and discussed immortality. The Divine gift of undying. As children, he read and retold volumes of ancient lore, how sorcerers who followed the proper rites and protocols could become one with eternity. They became demons, spirits, and liches. Our mother scorned him constantly for such discussions, but I admittedly found them intriguing.

Later, growing into our early adulthood and stumbling into newfound freedoms and opportunities, Charles briefly mentioned an apprenticeship. I applauded him in spirit, but also found the announcement curious. Welding or woodwork was outside the boy who preferred books of lore and fiction to the company of others. Still, I supported the idea of Charles claiming a life of normality, though he never mentioned the specifics of his new vocation.

I half-expected the topics of conversation to shift from the bizarre to that of the ordinary, yet, quite the opposite happened. The macabre subjects grew darker. Instead of crystals or animal bones, Charles talked of animal sacrifice, dark rites, and hidden places where the veil between life and death is thin. There were incantations one could recite, rituals and practices to employ, all for some cosmic gift he never talked of specifically. He was strangely vague about the greater picture as if he felt embarrassed about what his ravings would lead to.

There was a gradual, yet distinct change in him as the days passed. His face became gaunt with malnourishment, and his excited preachings became tired mutterings. In his eyes, the gleam there once was had clearly vanished. He was being hallowed, drained of himself. I expressed to him concern that he was overworking himself when he admitted he'd not been eating or sleeping the way he ought to. Days passed without a bite of food or a blink of sleep, but he assured it was his own doing that made it so. I asked to accompany him to his job, feigning curiosity about his new career path. The idea unnerved him, and while he promised to discuss the idea with his superior, I knew in his eyes no such discussion would be had. He did, however, lend me a book that would enlighten me about the path he has chosen. It was an old, heavy book, bound in brownish, odorous leather, cracked with age.

It was, put plainly, a spellbook. Each page depicted a different ritual, some to be performed once or twice, some to be done at frequent intervals, and some to be done daily. It began with daily meditations to harness one's desire. Then, specific crystals would need to be placed across the reader's living space. Animal bones were to be gathered and thrown into a fireplace to burn as one recited the written incantations. One page demanded intense fastings, another the use of hallucinogenics, and another required animal sacrifice. Should the reader incorporate each of the forty pages properly, one could obtain immortality.

Suddenly, after scrolling through the stiff, brittle pages, it occurred to me my brother had joined a cult. I went to him, protesting the whole affair, but he assured me of its validity. He'd 'seen things' that only his ancient scripts could explain. He forced me into an oath of secrecy, and I only agreed because I feared complete ex-communication otherwise.

One late night, he summoned me to his home. What was once his living room was cleared of all furniture and decorum save a pentagram painted red across the wooded floor. Whispering in tongues, Charles emerged from the shadows, holding in his palms an open book identical to the one he lent me. His whisperings grew louder and louder until the room, and perhaps the earth itself trembled at his bellowing. A second voice joined the song. A hideous, otherworldly voice. Thunder crashed in the distance, and both voices ceased their chanting only for Charles to scream in unearthly agony. Ram-like horns slowly sprouted and grew from his skull, winding backward.

Silence fell over the earth, and all was calm. Charles stood motionless, staring blankly through me, and perhaps through the entire world. Though his eyes stayed the same in hue and shape, there was a new emptiness in them. His soul had been hallowed. Now, there was only a husk that was once a boy fascinated by the macabre. His jaw fell slack, and drool began to drip from his grey lips. I called out his name, and when there was only silence, I called again. Not once did his eyes spark with recognition. Not once did his eyes move to meet mine. I knew then that my brother had died, though his heart may beat, and his lungs take and expel air.

Carefully, I laid the figure across the floor, and left, shortly returning with a pillow I found. There wasn't struggle, no fight from a man who wanted to live. His final breath went unheard, soaked up by the pillow. After uncounted hours of sobbing, I buried him just outside his house.

All these were the incidents of twenty-five years ago. I've not aged a day since. I grew suspicious, looking barely thirty at the age of fifty-six. It took time, but I found all of my brother's belongings. There was a third, better-kept copy of the book. It contained a page missing from the other two depicting one last ritual: human sacrifice.