The Ritual

“It is not, I think, in the realm of man that consciousness truly lies. There must be another - some great Beyond - to balance the harsh mathematics of reality. This other I brand Elsewhere, home of our queen.”

- Edgar Baldwin, Occultist.

I.

The Stained-Glass Woman

The interior of a church has never been a place I feel at ease. A procession of falciform columns and dark stone - anathema to the translucent glass set within - paltry light of a discoloured aspect; none are appealing, and all appal me. Faith: the many-limbed monster of the feeble; a discordant choir of ignorance and blissful solitude in the orchestra of knowledge, straining against a final hideous harmony.

I deplore churches. More so now than ever.

Nevertheless I found myself seated amongst the putrefying pews of such a building on that night: October 13th, 1926. Not by choice, mind you, I was there purely for the purpose of fulfilling the final wish of a friend, the late Edgar Baldwin. My old compatriot was a fellow of Cambridge, a rational thinker of many fields, specialising in the archaeology of obscure and queer cultures across the globe. He had been predisposed of late with the excavation of a site in Israel; a broken monolith of oily black stone that has - to my knowledge - defied classification or period-dating to this very day. The locals of the region believed the secluded valley in which the monolith was discovered to be cursed; a sentiment I am inclined to align with to some degree, especially considering the unpleasant circumstances of dear Edgar’s demise.

It was these very circumstances that I considered as I sat in the church, standing vigil over his coffin, when I heard a scratching at the old wooden door. Resolving to investigate the issue, as much to alleviate apathy as out of genuine interest, I left the remains of my meal, strode my way to the entrance and paused. A chill swept from the threshold, a seeping cold of unnatural clarity. It sang in my spine, giving pause to the shaking hand with which I reached out to open the door.

A face greeted me, sharp as the icy cold and unsettlingly inhuman, a leering skull wrapped in the hood of a black robe.

“Can I help you, sir?” I asked, burying the tremor of my voice beneath layers of politely detached charm.

“Might I come in? Dr Baldwin requested my presence - and that of my associates - at his vigil.” He spoke softly - off-puttingly so. I looked past him, seeing a procession of dark-clad people sprawling out behind him into the mist.

“Not to speak ill of the dead, sir, but my friend was not the most socially inclined. I sincerely doubt that you -”

He handed me a slip of paper. The scrawl was Edgar’s; a spider-like correspondence clearly more comfortable writing in long-dead languages than English.

‘My good friend,’ it read, ‘In reading this, you are likely aware that I am dead, and are respecting my wishes in standing vigil over me before I am buried. For this I thank you, but the burden is one to be shared. Please allow my fellow, Tobias, and those he sees fit to bring to perform their own vigil. This is my last message to you old friend, I shall see you again soon.’ Below the note was a signature. Unmistakably Edgar’s.

The doorknob had grown uncomfortably cold from exposure to the outside air, and if not for a polite cough from Tobias, I may have simply stood on the frame until I died of exposure.

“Yes, yes,” I mumbled, opening the door wide, “My apologies, do come in.” I stepped aside, allowing the queer procession to pour into the building like mist.

The group quickly arrayed themselves in two ranks along the central aisle, silent and black-clad. I confess that the sight of so many in such perfect silence conjured images of the rows of fallen seraphim I envisioned in the church of my youth. Not wishing to interrupt their custom, and fascinated as to what strange sect my old friend had allied with in his later years, I returned to my seat at the front pew.

I found myself next to Tobias, arms crossed over his chest and mumbling something in what may have been Greek or Aramaic or perhaps something older and far, far stranger. Now I am not a religious man, but the sight of these... people surrounding Edgar like so many vultures in such a heathen manner was irksome to me. A kind of primal wrongness welled up within the pit of my stomach, a serpentine sense of creeping, grim horror; that such a ritual could be taking place over the body of so dear a friend.

“I say-” I stood, and saw the utterance had gone entirely unheeded. The ululating song rose in pitch and volume to swallow my words. The shadows in the room seemed to tremble. “I say!” my voice was swallowed again.

“Be seated, Marked One.”

“Marked? What do you-” Tobias’ aides lunged for me, pushing me back into the pew.

“Unhand me!” I struggled fruitlessly.

“You have taken the sacrament. The Mark is with you now.”

He gestured towards the cadaver of my evening meal, now inexplicably fetid and veined in black, as - I noted with almost detached horror - was a patch of skin on the back of my hand.

Tobias rose to his feet and held his arms wide, chest expanding and expelling air as though his breath was being forced by invisible bellows.

“Great Queen of Elsewhere,” he panted, “I come on a tide of song to bear you a gift. Claim the soul of your Marked, and return that of our unholy brother.” He pointed a shaking, skeletal finger at me, “take him, and bring back the good doctor!”

I froze in my seat, icy hands at my neck; fear, or something worse. A cold realisation, like that of a deer in the sights of a hunting rifle. I locked eyes with something previously unseen in the shadows.

Dear god.

So many eyes.