The Devil You Know (16 page)

As
soon as she opened the door, a little bell ringing above it, Marie saw Jasper
hop off his stool and rush toward her. “Marie!” he said, his voice almost a
shout. He held a book in his right hand, and as he approached her he shifted it
to his left so he could reach out and flip the “Open” sign in the window over
to “Closed.” Marie looked at her watch in surprise and saw that it was only
4:15, a full forty-five minutes before Jasper normally locked up. Now he
slipped his key into the deadbolt on the door, tested the lock, and turned
toward the little office he kept at the back of the store. Dumbfounded, Marie
had not moved, and when he saw that she was not following, he impatiently said,
“Come on. You’ve got to see this. I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon.”

Intrigued,
Marie followed. She had never been inside his office before, yet she could have
easily guessed what it would look like—a cluttered mess with stacks of
books on the floor and unopened mail on the desk. She had to smile when she
stepped into a little room that fit her expectations exactly. Jasper quickly
pulled out a wooden chair from across the desk and removed a pile of books from
it, indicating that Marie should sit. The only other furniture in the room were
a small filing cabinet and a small safe, each in different corners. Jasper
perched himself on the edge of the desk, his bony legs still touching the
floor.

Opening
the book he had been carrying, he said, “I think I found something that can
shed a bit more light on things.” He held the book up proudly. “Been reading a
translation of a Chinese demonology. Very old in the original. Listen: ‘ Once
the love spirit’—that’s the term the translator has used—‘Once the
love spirit has taken human form, it can approximate any appearance that
pleases it. It can also change its appearance at will.’” He looked up from the
book to be sure Marie was paying attention, his expression one of childlike
excitement.

Marie
nodded encouragement, but said. “Yes, but we already knew that, right?”

“Yes,
yes,” he said, impatiently holding up a finger to indicate that she should wait
for more. “Just listen. ‘The being is fragile in this state and can easily be
eradicated or cast out. Knowing this, it seeks energy from its victims, usually
leaving them in a state of torpor, sometimes all but killing them in its
withdrawal of their spirit into itself.’” He looked up again, his smile even
wider. “Now what do you think?”

“My
God,” she gasped. “That’s what they’re doing. That’s what he did to Elise, what
they’re doing to all those other women. Taking their…what? Their souls?” She
thought of Laura Tremaine in her little apartment no less than a mile away and
of what else might have happened there since Marie had last spoken to her.

Jasper
shrugged. “Call it what you will. The book says spirit. A Christian would have
said soul. Others may call it life energy or ka or who knows what. The point is
they’re taking it to sustain themselves and gain strength. They’re like
vampires.”

Marie
exhaled loudly and looked at the floor, trying to take it all in. Then she
said, “But Jasper, this is just one report. From the Chinese, you said? But
this wasn’t a Chinese spell or book or—”

“That
doesn’t matter! You’re right that this might be an anomalous report, but it
certainly fits what we’re looking at with these creatures, and I’ll bet if we
dig further we’ll find references that support this one. But the bigger point
isn’t that these demons are Chinese or American, Buddhist or Christian or
followers of Aimee Semple MacPherson. They’re real is the point.”

“But
how can it be? I mean, it’s a spell in Latin written down by a Christian monk.
How can it…?”

“Work
on Chinese demons?” Jasper chuckled. “That’s my point. They’re not Chinese.
They’re not really even demons in the sense that they had any sort of existence
before being conjured by your Mr. Krebs.”

“I
don’t understand.”

“I
thought all the things we’d been poring over would have made this clearer to
you, Marie. But perhaps I should have explained a bit more directly. You’re
viewing all of this through a Christian lens, trying to make sense of it
according to your own theology. The thing you need to keep in mind, my dear, is
that spiritualism, demonology and the like really aren’t about entities, but
energies. Good and evil, if you like. Positive and negative, yin and yang. It’s
all of a piece. One can channel positive energies if one knows how. Most of us
don’t, but the ones who are good at it usually make sense of it by calling it a
guardian angel or something similar. The same goes for the negative. It’s not
like there’s an angel or a demon in some corner of heaven or hell just waiting
to be summoned. But rather the right actions—often words—along with
absolute, unbending faith, Marie,
faith
can draw these energies together and effectively create something out of
nothing. Colin Krebs used that book of spells to cause a highly destructive male
sexual energy to converge into something that now takes on the characteristics
of a being—in this case, an extremely mischievous and wily sort of being
who is bent on preserving himself while letting his sexual nature run its
course. Is this making sense?”

“I
think so,” Marie said. She had been listening intently, trying to understand
everything he was saying. “So if what you’re saying is true, then Colin would
have needed to believe the spell was going to work?”

“Yes.”

“But
how could he believe it so fervently? For it to work?”

“He
had to believe. Raised a Catholic, he was primed for this through all the
ritual and rote memorization and guilt over his own impure thoughts. And you
make it sound as though he also believed unequivocally in the power of Julian
Piedmont. I think it’s possible he made himself believe the spell could work
because Piedmont had made it clear that he expected it to work, that he would
take its failure as Colin Krebs’ failure, which Krebs could not stand the
thought of.”

Marie
nodded. “It makes sense,” she said. Then she tilted her head toward the book in
Jasper’s hands. “Does that say anything about whether there’s hope for the
victim?”

He
shook his head. “Unfortunately, the subject doesn’t come up. My guess, though,
is that if this is accurate, the results are similar to what one might expect
of a victim of vampirism. Once some of the victim’s blood—or in this
case, the energy or spirit or soul—has been withdrawn, there is no real
way to get it back.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Marie
clenched her jaw. Her ire began to rise again at the idea that there would be
no relief for Elise’s suffering. “So how do we stop them?”

“Keep
more women from ending up like your friend?”

Marie
nodded her response.

Jasper
shrugged. “This book doesn’t say. But it seems to me that if it’s faith and a
spell that brought these creatures into being, faith and a spell should cause
the negative energies to dissipate. Or rather, faith and a prayer. I would
think that, for you, one of the Christian prayers used in exorcism would get
the job done. That and the little relic I gave you.”

“And
for you?” she asked.

Jasper
smiled. “I have faith in very little, my dear. I don’t think I would be much
use in slaying demons.” He looked at her for a moment, and she saw for the
first time that he looked worried about her. “Whatever you decide to do, Marie,
please talk it over with me first. We must consider all of this very carefully.
This is very dangerous ground you’re thinking of treading on. Besides,” he
added, “you would have to consider the fact that Julian Piedmont could just
conjure more demons if you were to slay the ones he’s already created.”

“That’s
true,” she said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that. Any suggestions?”

Jasper
smiled. “We find a way to get the book away from him. I’d give it a good home,
you know. Could Krebs be deputized?”

She
considered it for a moment. “Possibly,” she said. “Dangle redemption in front
of him, and he might.”

“We’ll
think on it some more. Enough for today, eh?”

Marie
smiled. “Agreed.”

She
had set her purse down on the floor and was about to bend down and retrieve it
when Jasper hopped off the edge of the desk, and she was able to see for the
first time the wall behind him. A small painting hung in the space between his
framed business license and a battered clock, immediately drawing her eye. She
forgot her purse and stood up to get a better look. “What in the world is
that?” she asked.

Dark
shades of blue and purple dominated the painting’s background with at least the
top two-thirds being taken up with the image of a dark chamber whose walls
faded to black in the distance. At the bottom of the painting, though, was the
image of a terrified woman tied to an altar, her hands and feet bound with
heavily knotted ropes. Her white dress stood in sharp contrast to the dark
background; it had been ripped to the waist, exposing her breasts. At the head
of the altar was a cloaked and menacing figure pointing a bony finger in her
direction. The painting had an unsettling effect on Marie.

“That?”
Jasper said, turning to admire the image. “That’s my little souvenir from
Margaret Brundage.”

“You’re
kidding,” Marie said. She knew Brundage’s work well. It had been featured on
many of her favorite issues of
Weird
Tales
from the 1930s and almost always depicted women in provocative
situations. Marie moved around the desk to get a closer look and now saw the
familiar “M. Brundage” signature in the bottom corner. She could picture the
magazine’s logo emblazoned over the dark colors. “I don’t remember seeing this
one,” she said. “It’s a bit racy.”

“I
understand that many of Margaret’s originals had full nudity. They were touched
up at the office to satisfy the censors.”

“And
she gave this to you? When?”

“About
five or six years ago, I believe. I heard a rumor that she had an unpublished
Lovecraft manuscript, so I went to see her in Chicago and made her an offer.
She threw in the painting for a little extra.”

Now
Marie turned to Jasper, dumbfounded once more. “You have an unpublished
Lovecraft? What is it?”

“Here.
I’ll show you.” He walked to the little safe in the corner, spun the dial back
and forth for a few seconds, and opened it with a click. Squatting, he pulled a
small stack of papers from it and thumbed through them quickly before pulling a
stapled typescript from the stack and returning the rest. “Careful,” he said as
he handed it to Marie. “As far as I know, it’s one of a kind.”

She
was afraid to touch it, but took it from him regardless. Centered near the top
of the first page were the words “The Depths of Catharog,” Lovecraft’s name
neatly typed below. “Jesus,” she whispered. Marie had read most of Lovecraft’s
stories and had never heard of this one.

Clearly
amused at her reaction, Jasper shrugged, making his acquisition seem rather
commonplace. “I haven’t been able to decide what to do with it, so here it
sits, nice and safe. I’m afraid if I try to publish it or sell it at auction,
the people looking after Lovecraft’s estate will just try to claim it as
theirs. You can read it if you’d like.”

“I
don’t know what to say. How did Margaret Brundage end up with it?”

“Farnsworth
Wright—the editor of
Weird Tales
?
He wanted her to base the cover on it. That’s what she got.” He pointed to the
painting. “It was for the December ‘36 issue. And before the final layout of
the magazine was set, Robert Howard killed himself. So the editors decided to
use an illustration from one his stories for the cover instead. Margaret told
me that Lovecraft was furious, more at the editors for trying to capitalize on
Howard’s death than for taking the spotlight off his own piece. I’m not sure I
believe her, though. At any rate, he refused to allow them to use the story at
all, so the painting never got sent in. As I recall, Lovecraft reconciled with
Wright, but he gave them a different story for the issue, insisting that the
one Margaret had done this cover for be used later.” He shrugged and sighed,
continuing the story. “But then Lovecraft himself died in ‘37, and Margaret was
left with the manuscript and the painting.” He indicated the story in Marie’s
hand. “You be careful with it, now, and you can bring it back to me in a day or
two.”

“I’m
almost afraid to,” Marie said.

“Shhh,”
Jasper gestured insistently. He took the story from her and slipped it into a
thick, legal-sized folder that he pulled from a desk drawer, then handed it
back. “There’s a lot more in this world to be afraid of, Marie.”

She
held the folder tightly, fearful the manuscript would slip out. “I think you
may be right,” she said.

Chapter Fourteen

Laura
kept her apartment as dark as possible now. All she wanted to do was sleep.
When she was awake, she had the most disturbing thoughts. Every little noise
from the hallway started her mind racing. She pictured Marie Doyle coming back
to harass her further, convincing herself that if the nosy bitch cooked up a
story the police would believe, they’d come and take her away. The only thing
that bothered her about the idea of being hauled off to jail or an asylum was
that it would mean no more Taylor. And Laura was convinced that she would die
without him. More than anything, it was her fear of somehow losing Taylor that
worried her in her waking moments—the fear that Taylor would find someone
else, that he’d tire of her, that he’d be found out by a wife or some other
lover and somehow be kept away from Ivar Street. Laura trembled at the thought
of languishing here without him, of lying in the darkened room day after day
and listening to passing footsteps in the hall, none of them stopping at her
door.

When
she slept, though, everything was right. In her dreams, she either had Taylor
or some thinly disguised substitute. The bat creature figured heavily in many
of her dreams, and she had come to see him as just a different version of
Taylor, one who was not at all frightening, but whose bizarre appendages and
appearance simply symbolized all the ways Taylor was different from every man
she had ever known. In other dreams, she was held in a dungeon, chained to a wall
with her legs forced open while semi-human guards did unspeakable things to her
until Taylor would burst in and rescue her, breaking her shackles and then
taking her there on the floor, the broken bodies of her captors spread all
around. Strangely, at that point in the dreams, she would notice that the dead
and dying guards all looked like Marie Doyle.

Whenever
she was with Taylor in her dreams, he always gave her the same white light she
had when he really came into her apartment. Sometimes, the dreams were so vivid
and the feelings so intense that she later wondered if he wasn’t visiting her
while she slept, having her without waking her and letting her drift into the
strange, blissful limbo that she had come to crave. If that was the case, Laura
was unperturbed by it. Let him come, she thought. Let him have her whenever he
wanted—asleep or awake. All that mattered was that he kept coming back.
From what she could recall, he had come at least once a day since they had
first met; time was hazy, though, and for all she knew, he may have come more
often.

She
had called in sick again on Friday and had let Saturday pass in a daze. At
about nine o’clock that night, though, she awoke, feeling more alert than she
had in days. She sat up in bed, pulled the loose sheets up around herself, and
listened to the sounds of the city outside the window. In the distance, she
thought she heard the sound of a loudspeaker.
A movie premiere, probably at the Pantages
, she thought as she
pulled herself out of bed and went to her window. Her view of the alley outside
offered nothing about what was going on, but when she cracked the window open,
she could hear more distinctly the sounds from a few blocks over. The boulevard
would be blocked, she thought, and she pictured the crowd in the street, a
thousand people all craning to see the red carpet. At the edges of the crowd
would be police, reporters, and photographers from the newsreels and papers,
and throughout the throng there would be a hum of voices with people barely
able to hear anyone who wasn’t yelling into their ears. Laura shuddered at the
thought, glad she’d stayed in tonight. It would be a madhouse, where only a
handful of people would get to see the movie stars. Instead, there’d be
pickpockets and gropers to worry about.

As
soon as the thought came into her mind, her body went rigid. It was as though
someone had just touched her in the small of the back with a very sharp knife;
one wrong move, and it would be in her kidney. Taylor would be in the crowd.
She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. He could move anonymously
through the throng, rubbing up against woman after woman, his hands finding
their way across their dresses, maybe even under the hems. Some would scream,
but they’d be so tightly packed in among the rest of the crowd that it would do
no good; Taylor would flash that innocent smile and move on to another one—who
wouldn’t scream. There would be plenty who’d welcome it, plenty who’d rub back
once they got a good look at those eyes. Before long, the amusement would wear
thin, and one of the willing would follow him out of the crowd and into a car
or an alley or another theater, and he’d have her there.

With
clenched fists and tight jaw, Laura spun around and crossed the room. When she
turned on the light, it hurt her eyes for a moment, but she ignored it and
looked among her scattered clothes for something she could put on. It didn’t
matter what. She just had to get outside and down the street as fast as she
could.

In
her haste, she forgot about a coat, so when she got outside her building, the
cool night air helped bring her to her senses. She felt less certain that
Taylor was in the crowd, and the thought that she would be able to find him in
such a mass of people now struck her as absurd. She could still hear the noise
from down on Hollywood Boulevard, and now could see the searchlights cutting
swaths through the dark sky, but as she stood there on the sidewalk, heading
down the hill and into the chaos of the movie premiere was the last thing she
wanted to do.

Frustrated,
disoriented, and bothered by how certain she had been of Taylor’s
unfaithfulness to her, she wished for nothing more than to have him with her.
More than that, she wanted to have him stay for once. She wanted to keep him—past
the point of white light, past the deep and trancelike sleep he left her in.
She wanted to wake and find him there, waiting for her, ready for her. He would
tell her things then—all the things she wanted to know—and he would
protect her if the Doyle woman came back again.

But
there was something about him that would not stand for it. She knew it now as
she wrapped her arms around herself and tried to warm the goose bumps away.
Taylor did not just leave when he was done with her because he had a wife or a
job or anything else to get back to. He left her because he had to, was
compelled to, in just the same way that he had to come back to her and that she
had to let him in. It was a force of nature, something not to be cajoled into
changing. The only way to keep him with her was to force him, and she knew it
would take quite an effort to force the man to do anything.

She
began walking down the hill, aimlessly at first, her thoughts taking her away.
Again, the image of Marie Doyle came into her head, and she smirked at how foolish
the woman must be to think that there was anything dangerous about Taylor. That
she should want Laura to stop seeing him and run away instead—it was
preposterous. But Laura knew the woman wouldn’t give up; nosy meddlers never
did, not when they had gotten it into their heads that they were superior, that
it was their job to save others from dangers no one else could see. But if
Marie Doyle could just see, really see and know what Laura had with Taylor,
then she’d change her tune.

Without
thinking about it, Laura had turned east at the first corner she came to,
wandering a bit closer to the commotion of the movie premiere, while staying a
block away from the boulevard. Here, the street was quiet with no one around,
but there was movement in the shadows that Laura was oblivious to. When she
stopped at the next corner and just stood there in her reverie, a woman stepped
out of a doorway, saying, “I hope you’re not thinkin’ of settin’ up shop here,
kid. This block’s mine.”

Taken
aback, Laura regarded the stranger. It took her only a moment to realize what
the woman was doing here and why she stood in the shadows while so much
activity went on in the bright lights a block away. “No,” she said nervously.
“I’m not…I was just…” Her voice trailed off as she realized that she did not
know why she was here.

“Lost?”
the woman asked with a smirk.

Laura
nodded. “I think so. I need…” The image of Taylor’s face popped into her mind
at the mention of need, and again she felt the overwhelming desire to keep him
to herself. “I need,” she repeated and saw that the woman was about to turn
away from her. “I need something to help me sleep,” she finally said. “Do
you…know anybody? Who could get something?”

The
woman’s expression changed to one of puzzled amusement. Then she gave Laura a
knowing smile. “There’s a drugstore down on the corner,” she said.

“That’s
not what I need,” Laura said quietly.

“Yeah,”
the woman nodded. “I can see that, sister. What you need can’t be bought in no
store. You lose your connection or somethin’?”

Laura
nodded. “I think so.”