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Chapter Two
Circle of Lights
Between her departure from India Crowley and waking
up on the bathroom floor, Irma's memory was a blur. She recalled being very sick and groping miserably up the
stairs, but from this point on all her other memories, including India, oozed
back as thick dark syrup through her skull. She could just barely recall bending over the commode and
rolling onto the floor, and yet, as she awakened with bladder pangs and a
chiming in her brain, she could clearly remember the look on India's face. It was a mixture of horror, loathing,
and shock.
For
some reason, this recollection made her laugh. There was nothing funny about India Crowley's actions
tonight. She could find nothing
humorous in that look on her face or what came out of her mouth. India was, at this stage, quite
deranged. And yet Irma laughed so
much now she began hiccuping and almost lost her breath.
Pulling
herself slowly up onto her legs, though, she confronted herself in the mirror,
and was reminded of last night.
When she caught her reflection in the glass, the entire episode began
flooding back as one dark wave. A
higher pitched giggle, emanating from hysteria rather than mirth now flowed out
of her mouth. Suddenly, her
amusement was gone, and in its place there was a gradual awareness of something
terribly wrong.
As
she tried to vocalize her concern, her tongue seemed to be ten sizes too big
for her mouth. With such a din in
her head, she could barely concentrate, and she also found it difficult to
stand. And yet this primitive
perception she felt made her angry as well as afraid.
“Thad
bish!” she drawled, standing shakily on her feet. “Thad crazy, goddamn
bish! Who she thing she iz? Id washn't my fauld she made a fool of
hershelf! Where she gid off
talking to me like thad?”
Looking
around for her watch, Irma groaned when she saw it lying in the toilet
below. “He-ey,” she made a face,
“how'd I do thad? The bish hex me;
thash wha' she did!”
After
lifting it out of the bowl and rinsing it off, she remembered that it was
waterproof. She also noticed that
it was one-thirty, which meant that she had only slept an hour. She was still quite drunk. As in the case of most drunks, she was
not thinking clearly when she decided to confront India at this hour. She remembered India talking strangely
to her. She had called her a worm
and later a pig. She had a cloudy
notion that something was wrong, but she wasn't sure what it was.
Still
feeling queasy, she used the toilet, splashed water onto her face, and headed
shakily for the door. There was no
time to slip into something chic, Irma thought light-headedly. The top portion of her costume was now
soaking wet, and the goatee drawn by India had just been smeared all over her
face. By the time she exited her
apartment, the adrenaline pumping through her system had sobered her enough to
keep her on her feet. As she
stumbled up the staircase, however, her wobbly legs remained unsynchronized
with her brain. Mouth agape,
glasses askew on her nose, she turned left, realizing belatedly it should have
been right. Squinting myopically
down the hall, she adjusted her glasses and shuffled back in the right
direction until reaching India's door.
Afraid to knock on the door, she peered into her living room window, her
little nose pressed against the glass.
Although
the curtain had been drawn, a section of it had been caught by one of India's
garish ceramics, allowing her to see just enough of the kitchen beyond. A dreadful odor floated from her
apartment. She could see India
still in her black dress, sitting on the floor inside a circle of lights. Candles were set evenly around
her. Various witches'
paraphernalia were situated nearby.
Normally, Irma would remember enough of the diabolic rites to recognize
a magic ring. Satan's star was in
the center, surrounded by symbols and words. Judging by the smell, India had also been brewing something
up on the stove. But the effects
of the alcohol Irma had imbibed was still strong. All of these familiar symbols of India's black art seemed
disjointed in her head. In her
present state of mind, she was fortunate just to be able to hear her words and
comprehend her chant.
She
seemed to be praying to herself at first.
The words “Bagabi laca bachabe, Lamac cahi achiababe” sounded like
gibberish to her, even though India had mumbled something like this earlier
downstairs. She didn't know what
it was suppose to mean or if India was making it up as she went along. As her voice rose in a chant, though,
she recognized lines from the Diabolic Rites followed by India's own special
request:
“Emperor
Lucifer, master of the underworld.
Look with favor upon India, your servant. I'll trade my soul for your power, if you make my magic work
and if you allow me to have vengeance on my foes. Oh master, make my potions and spells successful so I can do
your will!”
“I
knew it,” Irma snickered to herself. “Reached into her bag of tricks, she
did. No fire tonight. No murders. Poo-oor India, she's
finally gone over the edge!”
After
giggling awhile and doing a little jig, she began shuffling down the hall. Having no desire to confront Shadow
Brook's self-proclaimed witch, she wanted to put as much distance as possible
between herself and what was going on in that room.
Until
now, India had been a white witch.
White witches, India had explained to Irma, worshipped gods and
goddesses of nature and relied upon these forces when casting their
spells. Her occasional quotes from
the diabolic rites and sudden interest in black magic and alchemy, however,
though seemingly harmless at first, should have alerted Irma to the dangers in
this shift.
India
Crowley had crossed the line. By
her own actions, she had become a black witch. She had graduated, as many witches finally do, into the
black arts, from natural magic to sorcery, and from white witchcraft to the diabolic
rites. This wisdom, however,
though locked in Irma's mind, now contended with five cans of beer.
For
several moments, as she leisurely walked back to her apartment, she erupted
into genuine, non-hysterical, glee: “Emperor Lushifer? Mashter of the underworld? I wish I had
thish on tabe!”
Feeling
cocky now, Irma found herself shirking the whole affair as she would a bad
dream. As she paused to get her
bearings, however, a full fledged nightmare began heading her way.
Her
laughter and her equally ill-conceived urge to whistle as she staggered down
the hall demonstrated how intoxicated she still was. Penetrating her drunken brain was a sound that, in witches
parlance, could wake up the dead.
She had no desire to retrace her steps, especially back to India's
apartment. But the eerie sound she
was hearing came from that direction: about twenty paces from behind, she
judged, exactly where the parted curtain in India’s living room had been.
This
time, after reluctantly shuffling back, she listened breathlessly by the window
before peeking in. India, with her
eyes shut and palms uplifted, was in a state of ecstasy, chanting her
incantation in a quivering, wailing voice that made her sound possessed:
I
deny the creator of heaven and earth.
I
deny my baptism and the worship I formerly paid to God.
I
cleave unto thee and in thee I believe.
After uttering
what sounded like gibberish again, she raised her pale arms toward the ceiling
and cried out in a husky voice:
Oh
Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, come to me tonight
so
that we can make our trade.
I
will sign a contract with you: my soul for your power.
Please
father Satan, hear me at last!
As Irma watched in disbelief, India stopped
suddenly, her green eyes popping wide, her arms dropping down limply to her
sides, and a look of awe radiating from her face as she stared into space. A silence followed that was more
terrible than any noise. She
looked away for a moment not sure whether to stay or flee. When she looked back, she saw through
the darkness of the living room into the dimly lit kitchen, as she had before,
India, the magic circle, and witches paraphernalia all around. . . and
something else that filled her with dread.
A
dark silhouette now hovered beside India as she sat on the floor. The candle flames quivered as it moved
into the light. Even in her
present state of mind, Irma knew what this was. India, after years of make-believe witchcraft had summoned
the powers of darkness. Whether or
not it was Satan, himself, he seemed to change form continually as he joined
her in the circle, yet remained a total abstraction instead of the creature
Irma had been imitating tonight.
“Dear
God,” she gasped, “India did it! She made contact with hell!”
In
an ecstatic voice, as she gaze inappropriately at the ceiling, India cried
“Thank you master for sending me your servant with the power to do your will!”
For
a few moments, as Irma looked into the room, India reached out joyfully to the
demon. Seeing it quiver in
response, Irma heard it reply icily “I am Nebo, the Shape-Changer, servant of
Satan. Through me, you have power,
but you are his child!” Their voices fell to a murmur, as Irma
looked on. She could see India
show homage to the demon, but she could not understand what she said. A new and more terrible nausea gripped
Irma as the full meaning of this sank in.
Pausing
a moment to purge herself on the pavement below, she began backing away from
the window. She could not deny the
evidence before her eyes. Sam and
Alice had been right to condemn her: India was
a witch. This was unhallowed
ground, and yet she found herself drawn back to the crack in the curtain. When she looked back into the
apartment, the demon, now an orange bipedal filament, moved vaporously around
India, as she moved zombie-like, in a state of diabolical ecstasy, toward the
door.
At
that moment, Irma backed away from the scene, sobered yet numbed by what she
had discovered.
“This
is a nightmare,” she decided, adjusting her glasses on her nose, “I’m asleep. .
. . I'm dreaming. . . . Dear Lord, let me
be asleep!”
Forcing
her benumbed legs to move, Irma fled, as quickly as her little body would take
her, back to her apartment. She
was driven now by one single goal: lock he door, throw the deadbolt and wait
for the nightmare to pass.
Although the drunken slur had disappeared from her voice, she still felt
the effects of the beer.
After stumbling down the staircase, she became disoriented as she had
when she was trying to find India’s apartment. Not remembering what staircase she came up, she was
uncertain if she was suppose turn left or right at the bottom. Hearing footsteps in the distance, she
ran down the corridor, realizing belatedly that she had, in fact, gone the
wrong way. She remembered
something from her catechism at Catholic school at this point that seemed
appropriate. Looking
heavenward, a prayer formed on her lips.
In a loud croaking voice, she first cried “Get thee behind me
Satan!” Then, as she saw India
appear miraculously in her path, she began, with hardly a slur this time, to
quote the Twenty-Third Psalm:
The
Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He
maketh me to lie down in green pastures.
He
leadeth me beside the still waters.
“Well-well,”
purred India, a fiendish look in her eyes, “if it isn't my little devil, Irma
Fresco!”
He
restoreth my soul and leadeth me in the paths
of
righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the
shadow
of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art
with
me.
“I'm
going to do something to you.
You'll never guess what it is!”
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou
preparest a table before me in the presence
of
mine enemies.
Thou
anointest my head with oil.
My
cup runneth over.
“You
will have a new body and a new pare of eyes! You too will have new powers when I'm through! You will be my precious, furry pet!”
Surely
goodness and mercy shall follow me all the
days
of my life, and I will dwell in the house of
It’s something missing from my life that every
respectable witch needs.” she was saying, as Irma closed her eyes and prepared
herself for the worst. “It makes
it that much better when the pet is my best friend!”
“Pet?
. . . What pet? . . . What are you talking about?” Irma murmured hysterically
as India approached.
As India continued inching toward her, her hands
reached out to embrace as well as to curse. The demonic apparition, which had not completely joined its
host, now materialized by her side.
Petrified with fear now, Irma noticed that he had the outline of a man,
the consistency of smoke, and yet was transparent, without eyes, nose or
mouth. She watched in horror as
the orange bipedal shape moved over India, enveloped her body, and seeped into
her skin.
With
her lips frozen, throat paralyzed, and eyes tightly shut, Irma tried willing
herself awake, but something was dreadfully wrong. For that moment, as India radiated phosphorescently in the
dark, she tried uttering the Lord's Prayer this time. But the words caught in her throat when she opened her
eyes. This was all real she
admitted to herself. She had never
felt pain in a dream, and yet the bump she received after stumbling on the
stairs now throbbed. She had also
scraped one knee. There was, she
reasoned numbly, no mistaking the authenticity of this scene. It looked real, it sounded and felt
real, and it even smelled real.
When
India began to wave her hands around in the air and mumble her spell, there was
no mistaking the odor of brimstone as she spoke: “By the power within me and
the powers that be, a rat you once were and a cat you now be!”
Suddenly,
as India stopped waving her hands around and pointed a long slender finger
directly at her, a strange light-headedness overtook Irma. She felt herself caving in on all sides
and falling swiftly downward as if she was shrinking, which, in fact she
was. When the shrinking had stopped,
she could see, as light entered her costume, her black paws. She could feel a thick black coat of
fur over her skin.
“There-there,”
she heard a voice from without. “Poor kitty. All tangled up in that nasty devil’s pants.”
As
a great, dark hand probed into her costume, Irma tried to speak. But she realized that she no longer had
vocal chords.
“Meeowww!”
she found herself crying. “Meeowww!
Meeowww! Meeeeowwww!”
Almost
instinctively, as India grabbed her tail, Irma did the most natural thing for a
cat to do and bit India's hand. As
soon as India released the appendage, she bolted from the fabric, scampering
frantically off into the night.
Penny
Gruber, India's next door neighbor, who had been peeking fearfully through her
curtain, could see the small, furry black cat dart past. From the shadows, she witnessed the
Shadow Brook Witch in angry pursuit, shouting madly “I'll find you my pet, and when I do I might just have you stuffed!”
Only a few moments after Irma had escaped, India
heard laughter in Shadow Brook Arms.
Several men were walking toward her now, their mischievous faces
captured in successive porch lights as they approached. The post Halloween party at Wanda and
Neva's apartment had evidently ended.
They were walking away from it with smiles on their faces, not realizing
what was waiting for them down the hall.
“Well,
well,” cackled India, rubbing her hands together as they approached, “Buck,
Tom, Jim, Ed and Drew. . . . Out late tonight, are we boys?”
“Hey,
ish Broomhelda!” drawled Buck, obviously quite drunk. “You wuz supposa zap us!”
“Yeeeaaah,”
Tom said, slack jawed and barely able to stand. “You wuz gonna turn ush into
animummals!”
“That
I am, my pets, that I am” India cackled, positioning her hands.
Penny
Gruber now caught the voices in the corridor outside her living room and heard
India’s response as the men began heckling her again. Through her parted curtain, she could see India passing by
her window after attempting to capture the little cat. The young spinster did not understand
what was happening yet. India
looked very much like an adolescent trick-or-treater wearing an oversized
costume and ill-fitting hat. She
didn’t look like a witch, and Penny was unaware that Irma had been turned into
a cat. She knew only that India
had been acting quite unhinged tonight, both inside and outside her apartment.
Penny had the misfortune to share a common wall with India Crowley. After hearing strange and unearthly
voices on India’s side of the wall, she had attempted to reach Sam Burns the
apartment manager, but Sam was evidently not home, and she was tempted now to
call the police. The question is,
Penny wondered aloud, “how do I report such a thing to the police? What do I say?” “Let’s see,” she
rehearsed hysterically, “Officer, I hear strange sounds on the other side of
the wall. I think my next door
neighbor is a witch!”
Penny
drew back fretfully from the curtain as Buck and his gang heckled India,
greatly disturbed by the noise.
The fact was, she noted with surprise, India seemed unusually calm this
time. Even though they were
heckling her unmercifully, she had not lost her temper. When the would-be witch began walking
toward them out of her visual range, Penny shrugged her shoulders and began
shuffling off to bed. For some
inexplicable reason she would live to regret, however, she decided to have a
look. Unlocking her door, she
peeked down the corridor, wishing very much that she had the courage to give
them a piece of her mind.
“Damn
you Sam Burns,” she cursed, “where are you?”
Three
or four apartments down the corridor, India had stopped in front of Buck Logan
and his friends. Penny cringed at
the sound of their drunken laughter as India cried out “by the power within me
and the powers that be, rats you once were and cats you now be!” Afterwards, she heard the terrible
sound of India's cackling, as if she was about to do something diabolical to
the young men. She did not know
yet that she already had.
Before
returning to her living room and bolting her door, she looked back fearfully
one more time and saw the young men standing together laughing at India’s
spell. Suddenly, as would five
pairs of starched fabrics going limp, their clothes fell simultaneously to the
ground. It was, Penny thought with
a gasp, as if the young men had shrunk into the shadows at India’s feet. She could not believe her eyes. The darkness had swallowed up Buck and
his friends.
“It
has to be an optical illusion,” she told herself with a shudder. “India can’t
really be a witch!”
As
she listened to the eerie sound of mewing of cats, however, and watched India
chase them into the dark, understanding dawned in Penny's horror-stricken
mind. Retreating back into her
apartment, she locked and bolted the door and put on the night latch.
“That
settles it,” she said breathlessly, scurrying to her phone, “I’m calling the police!”
Down
the staircase and across the lawn, Irma had ran. Low down to the ground she traveled, below an awesome
network of giant buildings and plants, through a netherworld of shadows,
barking dogs, monstrous vehicles, into endless alleys and unlit stretches of
street. Without stopping or
looking both ways, she scampered across roads and passed driveways on her quest
to escape. Without a destination
in mind and with her only goal to flee, she found herself deep into the nearby
town before she decided to stop.
Now,
just when she thought she was safe, she was confronted with a new problem
almost as bad as the first: she was lost.
“Son
of a bitch!” she thought to herself.
What came out of her mouth, however, was a faint but very distinct
meow. This noise, which was
intended to indicate alarm, sounded strange flowing out of her throat. Also strange to her senses was the
sensation of having thick black fur all over her skin.
Her
misfortune was softened by the fact that she
was alive. She was not yet
stuffed as India threatened nor would she become her “pet”. Some things, she believed, were
actually an improvement upon the old Irma. She no longer had to wear glasses. With twenty-twenty vision, she could see the most minute
details in the darkest spots. She
could also smell the most finite aromas, and was much faster and more agile
than she had been before.
But
she was still a cat, who was under a witch's spell, and she was lost.
To
make matter's worse for her, she was, at this very moment traveling the wrong
way. Instead of heading back north
as she should, she was traveling south, skirting passed the civic center, into
the outskirts of Skid Row. Totally
unfamiliar with her surroundings here, she had no way of knowing which way to
go. Irma, the woman, had a poor
sense of direction, but at least she could hail a cab or wave down a bus. Irma, the cat, on the other hand, could
neither hail nor wave. She had no
vocal chords, and she had no hands.
Street signs seemed to be twenty stories above her head. As a human, her sense of direction
might have been inadequate, but as a cat, she had no sense of direction at all.
The
important fact for Irma, at this point, was that she had escaped India’s
clutches. There was no telling
what sort of spell she might cast on her next. She might even have lived up to her threat and had her
stuffed.
Into
a world of darkness and danger, Irma now found herself marooned. From the nightmarish point in which she
was transformed, until the moment she curled up in a discarded grocery sack in
an alley and fell asleep, barely a half hour had passed, and yet this was
already the longest period of hell she had ever endured.