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Chapter XXXIV pgs. 220-222
The room chilled. Alex’s heart all but stopped, and his shoulders slumped, aching, crushed by an unseen burden. Alex stared at the place on the wall where Hitler’s portrait had hung. Where did that word come from? In his mind, Alex had said, “devil”. He didn’t really believe in the devil - any more than he believed in God. He, Alexander Lidecker, was god. That was what he believed. That, and the word Remordia. But it was only a good-luck thing – like a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover. He’d never actually done anything superhuman. He hadn’t meant to…
Alex began to tremble, chilled as he had been that night years ago sitting beside Puddin’ Creek. He remembered hugging the book, next to his body, its pages musty with age. What was its name, he wondered. Something with a “C” – “Chesterville’s! “Chesterville’s Complete Book of Spells.” On an impulse, Alex pulled up the Internet on his computer, and typed “Chesterville’s Complete Book of Spells.” He stared at the screen for a full minute before pressing enter. Nothing came up. Next he typed in antique books and bookstores. Three hours later, he had located a shop in New Jersey whose owner claimed to carry a copy of “Chesterville’s”. With a sinking feeling, Alex reached for his car keys, and, driving as if in a trance, he headed for the New Jersey Turnpike and Ye Olde Biblioteque, a modest antiquarian bookstore in Trenton. Then, with the precious book wrapped in brown paper and tucked away safely in the trunk of his car, Alex sped south towards the White House.
“I’ll be home late again,” he told Vivian. He needed to examine the book in privacy.
“I’m not superstitious, just curious,” Alex said to himself as pulled out “Chesterville’s Complete Book of Spells.” He opened the package. The musty odor inside reminded him of attics and old trunks, and historical ghosts. Carefully, he leafed through the pages. Most were a dull tan, the color of autumn leaves gone to dead brown just before winter’s blanket of snow. He handled the pages gingerly. And just like dead leaves, they crackled and flaked away in his fingers. Alex tried to remember that Halloween night. “Lying spells.” “The craft to convince.”
Hell was supposed to be hot but Alex was chilled throughout as if suspended in ice. He found the lying spell, and skipped to the bottom of the page. “…for a price. Thy essence consumed with lye. Shackled to spiked wheels. Dragged by wild oxen through rasping rocky pits. Flesh rotting from thy writhing body.” There was more. “Agony not of flesh but of mind and soul.” “Chill not of body but of spirit.” “For Hell and damnation lie not in chasms of flames but in the human heart.”
Alex saw himself a small maggot in the center of an unidentifiable rotting carcass. And he was afraid. Icy fingers tore at his heart and choked his breathing.
“Snap out of it,” he whispered to himself, but his body shook. “You don’t believe in any of this. And anyway it’s too late. So schedule a massage, enjoy your empire, and stop all this shit.” And like the maggot in the rotting carcass, he slunk back to his desk. Slowly, like someone drugged he turned back to his notes on Johanna. It was hard to concentrate. His mind was playing rhythms that he couldn’t control. Taps, The Lord is My Shepherd. And Taps, over and over. He poured brandy – glass after glass – amazed that he wasn’t drunk. Finally he threw up, and that cleared his head. He went over the notes one last time, then gave task up and went home.
Chapter XXXIV pgs. 220-222
The room chilled. Alex’s heart all but stopped, and his shoulders slumped, aching, crushed by an unseen burden. Alex stared at the place on the wall where Hitler’s portrait had hung. Where did that word come from? In his mind, Alex had said, “devil”. He didn’t really believe in the devil - any more than he believed in God. He, Alexander Lidecker, was god. That was what he believed. That, and the word Remordia. But it was only a good-luck thing – like a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover. He’d never actually done anything superhuman. He hadn’t meant to…
Alex began to tremble, chilled as he had been that night years ago sitting beside Puddin’ Creek. He remembered hugging the book, next to his body, its pages musty with age. What was its name, he wondered. Something with a “C” – “Chesterville’s! “Chesterville’s Complete Book of Spells.” On an impulse, Alex pulled up the Internet on his computer, and typed “Chesterville’s Complete Book of Spells.” He stared at the screen for a full minute before pressing enter. Nothing came up. Next he typed in antique books and bookstores. Three hours later, he had located a shop in New Jersey whose owner claimed to carry a copy of “Chesterville’s”. With a sinking feeling, Alex reached for his car keys, and, driving as if in a trance, he headed for the New Jersey Turnpike and Ye Olde Biblioteque, a modest antiquarian bookstore in Trenton. Then, with the precious book wrapped in brown paper and tucked away safely in the trunk of his car, Alex sped south towards the White House.
“I’ll be home late again,” he told Vivian. He needed to examine the book in privacy.
“I’m not superstitious, just curious,” Alex said to himself as pulled out “Chesterville’s Complete Book of Spells.” He opened the package. The musty odor inside reminded him of attics and old trunks, and historical ghosts. Carefully, he leafed through the pages. Most were a dull tan, the color of autumn leaves gone to dead brown just before winter’s blanket of snow. He handled the pages gingerly. And just like dead leaves, they crackled and flaked away in his fingers. Alex tried to remember that Halloween night. “Lying spells.” “The craft to convince.”
Hell was supposed to be hot but Alex was chilled throughout as if suspended in ice. He found the lying spell, and skipped to the bottom of the page. “…for a price. Thy essence consumed with lye. Shackled to spiked wheels. Dragged by wild oxen through rasping rocky pits. Flesh rotting from thy writhing body.” There was more. “Agony not of flesh but of mind and soul.” “Chill not of body but of spirit.” “For Hell and damnation lie not in chasms of flames but in the human heart.”
Alex saw himself a small maggot in the center of an unidentifiable rotting carcass. And he was afraid. Icy fingers tore at his heart and choked his breathing.
“Snap out of it,” he whispered to himself, but his body shook. “You don’t believe in any of this. And anyway it’s too late. So schedule a massage, enjoy your empire, and stop all this shit.” And like the maggot in the rotting carcass, he slunk back to his desk. Slowly, like someone drugged he turned back to his notes on Johanna. It was hard to concentrate. His mind was playing rhythms that he couldn’t control. Taps, The Lord is My Shepherd. And Taps, over and over. He poured brandy – glass after glass – amazed that he wasn’t drunk. Finally he threw up, and that cleared his head. He went over the notes one last time, then gave task up and went home.
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