In the Witching Hours
“NO… no!! Leave me alone! You deserved it! Every one of you!!” The voice echoed dully and full of sleep off the dark chamber walls. From the black velvet curtain drifted in dusky shaft of light, falling dirty and gray on a pale torso. The sheets folded over the form just under the last ribs, sweat turning the creases of linen dark. “Let me in peace! Away…” Mozenrath muttered. His arms were bent and pulled up at the sides of his head, imprinted into the mattress with a force not often exerted by the sleeping body. His ankles made a similar impression at the end of the bed. He tossed and writhed against them, grumbling as he pulled against the bonds that weren’t there. The faces oh the faces…. Bloody.. As he had left them. His back pushed off the bed, held down by wrist and ankle.
The sorcerer screamed again and his ribs bowed in a blow from invisible seraphs, sending his form crashing into the softness of the bed. Black stands of hair clung to his face like a million cracks as his features twisted in anger. “I’ll kill you all again, and again for a thousand lifetimes to come!” He finally screamed and fell still and silent while a knock rung hesitantly at the chamber door. Soft, than as things feel silent, forceful.
Mozenrath creaked his eyes open and gulped deep lungfulls of air. His eyes rolled back as lids covered them again, wrinkling in concentration as his chest stopped heaving. Lips parted in a gasp, than a sigh, and slowly his face turned to the side, to the door, wracked in exhaustion.
The knock again. Mozenrath wet his lips, swallowed, and began… but a sound blotted him out. Over the winds fell the chime of bells. Slow and careful from the new Christian ministry set up in Agrabah. The ‘bong’ of the bell swam lazily in the dreary air, as it had done every hour for a solid week. Mozenrath was taking quite a disliking to Christians. He might have to just…. Nono that would only add to his growing list of casualties.
And the last bell tolled, 12 it’s number. And all was silent, save for the soft shuffle of bare feet on the floor outside his room. “Nefret, go back to bed. It was not my intention to rouse you.” He groaned and rubbed his eyes. He must have really been raising hell if his minion was jolted out of sleep down the hall and behind two closed doors.
“No…” came the female voice. “It’s not 12 midnight…” The voice fell silent, in dither and wonder. “Its 12 noon.”
***
In lovely downtown Agrabah, just a few short miles away a new face gazed out of a window. Her features bronze and high, eyes lined and dark green, lash line extending regally. She sighed and rubbed her swelled belly. A new face, yes. A new advocate of peace come to the fabled kingdom….. a diplomat of Egypt. Not that she could stay much longer… “No, not much longer.” She sighed and rubbed her belly.
The clock strikes but once
The noon sun barely peeked out of the chronic clouds over the Citadel. Mozenrath sat in the dinning room rubbing his head. Now, this boy was never one to sleep late. He was up and about with the chickens in the morning, raring to get on with yet another day filled with power and gain. To sleep till the high sun was almost unprecedented, and by Allah did it ever give him a headache.
His fingers, one fleshed and the twin clad in leather, pushed small circles into his temples. Food had been placed in front of him, but barely a bite taken out of it. Nefret’s fork scooted over now clean plate as she set the utensil down to contemplate her luncheon company.
A true tortured soul. With that concluded she gave a huff and she pushed back her chair. Snatching up both their plates to saunter to the kitchen, feet slapping against the marble with a sharp snap. A sure sign to the sorcerer his little minion was unhappy.
Mozenrath knew why too… he had a habit of keeping things from her… if she had her way she’d know every nook and cranny of his life’s story. Silly servant girl. Silly girl……….. Silly.
With a groan he set down his head and took in deep breaths, his back raising and falling in a heaving arch. Slowly he lulled his head and sighed, looking into the doorway to the kitchen, Nefret working inside. Slightly humming and swaying as she placed a hand over the warm loaf of bread, reveling in the warmth from the oven still clinging to the finished dough. Suddenly she stopped, frozen in near shock as a ‘bong’ rang out, solitary and lonesome in the air. Moze, too, froze, his heart skipping a beat and his muscles tensing. No. They would never get used to that hourly reminder of time slipping though their hands. And then the murmur of silence set in again and Nefret shook her head and Mozenrath breathed again. Each promising next time to not be so childish.
And he watched…. Slowly her image grew pale…. Fading into gray scale. He was falling asleep.. yes… no.. no. The doorway was shading, like a translucent black veil pulled over the opening. A living standing shadow between the rooms. Moze blinked, lifting his head upright again, hovering it over his arms crossed across the table. It was still there, forming, gathering into a dark mist. Gauzy vapor hanging off the form like the garb of the grave.
The sorceress nose crinkled as the smell of sulfur and something rotting hit him. Freezing in something like fascination he watched the shadow. Hypnotized by it, seeing nothing else. Something was moving though, hazy in the mists, swaying…
Nefret burst though the dark air, scattering the whips of murky fog as she whisked into the room.
The sorcerer breathed hard as he stared with wide eyes. Raising her eyebrows she eyed him back, mouth halted in mid chew.
By Allah, is sanity so fleeting? Could a man go to bed with all his senses and wake at noon the next day daft? Completely daft….
Mozenrath shook his head and slapped himself back to consciousness. He would need it. Else he drops the vile he was holding and sends this part of the world sky high. Tediously he worked, brow knitted, and eyes fixed on a spell book. Not even the ringing of the bells could faze him now.
*bong*
*bong*
*tug*
Mozenrath flexed his thigh muscles as a horse might to pester the flies. He was to into his work to do anything other than instinctual.
*tug*
Carefully he bent down and grabbed the material of his pants, shaking them slightly.
*tug tug*
Anubis….. it was probably that damn dog, wanting attention or food.
*tug*
“Damn you, hound of hell!” Mozenrath cursed and turned, looking down… down into eyes. Not butterscotch… not that of a dog…. Round and….. misty gray. Wide and shiny… that of a child. A child, standing at his heels, tugging wantingly at his pants.
“Please sir, put out the fire. I burn.” She whispered up at him, eyes round and flashing with flames.
Mozenrath grimaced and back stepped, knocking into the table, and tipping the whole kit and caboodle as he pushed away from her, his arms coming up in repulsion, the vile dropping.
Tiny hands caught it, setting the glass tube upright and offering it back to him with a step forward. “I burn.” She whined and dissolved.
The sorcerer had only enough sense to grab for the vile before the girl was completely gone.
Not breathing, not blinking, not moving, he stood… staring at the spot she had been in. She… the little girl… just a little girl then.. when he…..
Gasping and forcing his head away he padded to the door and, with one look back, left.
Thrice come the bells
Afternoon now…. A sweet golden gray light filtering into the Citadel. Water splashed over the edge as Mozenrath took a gulp of air and ducked under the tub surface. Cold, cold water at that. If he was loosing his senses he might shock himself back into them. It was the work, the stress, the millions of other vices and vexes he had. He shivered.
The lapping of the water against the tub walls pushed the black cloud of Mozenrath’s hair back and forth as he held himself to the bottom. Lingering though the water was a sound,
*bong bong bong*
His air reserve was dwindling, and his lungs jumped but he held himself till the last moment. Bursting from the water’s surface he breathed deep. The cold air against his cooled skin making him feel quite awake and aware. He should be fine now.. fine now.
Slowly he sighed and smoothed the hair from his eyes, creaking them open. The droplets clinging to his eyelashes making queer patters on his vision…
He rubbed his eyes quickly and looked again. The water was dark, caused by the effect of the painted tub sides… and from the bottom lifted bubbles…. Tinkling up from between his feet. Bursting on the surface with a ‘blub’
Suddenly a hand burst from the water, fingers slade in desperation, a rough old hand, rings on every finger. Rings of kingship… of a kingdom in east….. once visited.
Mozenrath burst from the water, repelling in a shower of foam and rain. Snatching a heavy bottle he turned to aim at the hand.
…it was gone.
Panting hard the grabbed his robe and stormed out of the room, cursing.
“Come on…” Mozenrath whispered into the dark room as he sat in the heavy armchair. “Come and get me. We’ll see if you’re real or not.” He grumbled, on the point of breaking something. This time he would not run, he would not cry out or shut his eyes… not this time.
Slowly he breathed in measured pace, waiting for the bells to come….
*bong*
“One”
*bong*
“Two”
*bong*
“Three”
*bong*
“Four…..”
Slowly the air changed, growing gradually rancid and heavy. The entire area seemed darker now and darkest of all was the corners. “Come to me.” He ordered.
And so it obeyed. Stepping from the darkest corner IT came. Slow and measured. Female this time. Dressed in a sari, tattered though it may be. Over her exposed skin snaked a spider’s wed of blackened burns… special burns.. burns inflicted on flesh by magic… blue and black magic. His magic.
She slowed and then stopped to… stare with singed eyes. Mozenrath felt his stomach heave at the sight and smell but he would not run. He would not be daft one second longer! “I know you?”
The thing smiled hideous and rotting, then ran at him, full speed. Mozenrath’s hands clutched the armrests to push his back firmly into the chair as his eyes squeezed shut. A burst of sulfur and everything fell still and silent. Slowly his eyes opened to gaze into the void of the dark empty room.
Nefret gasp as a strong hand grabbed her arm and spun her around. Mozenrath, his features set. Quickly he secured her shoulders under his hands and looked into her wide eyes.
“Tell me you’ve seen them.”
Nefret grew angry and struggled. “Seen WHAT?” She cried and threw back her shoulder blades, knocking his hands away.
Mozenrath was not to be put off, with heavy steps he backed her into the bookshelf she had been sorting. “THEM! Haven’t’ you at least smelled it?”
Nefret shook her head. “I’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary. Let me go. You’re freaking me out!”
Moze looked at her face, brows knitted and eyes slightly wide, lips open and teeth clenched. Like one might look when faced with a mad man. Was that what she thought him.. mad? No no!! it wasn’t true! He was not mad.
*bong*
Moze grinned, almost an insane grin. As he leaned into her face. “You want to see them little minion?” He breathed over her face. Lightening quick her shoved her to the middle of the room and pulled her down into a sitting position with him.
*bong bong*
Nefret struggled to get away from the master who had obviously cracked. Mozenrath, however, was unusually forceful as he tucked her under one arm and used the other to take out a vile and pour a circle of white grains around them… salt.
*bong*
Secruring her tightly to him Mozenrath placed his head over her shoulder to whisper in her ear. “Now watch.” He instructed as they both feel silent, staring into the room, breath held. Footsteps echoed and Mozenrath’s heart clenched. Slowly they grew louder and closer, coming down the row of bookcases. “You hear that?”
Nefret breathed hard and shook her head. “I hear nothing.” She whispered.
Mozenrath’s eyes went wide and he clutched her tighter. “You hear it! You must! I am not..” he broke off as something appeared from behind the books. A form of a respectable looking man. A linen kilt around his waist. Mozenrath growled. “What do you want from me!” He cried out into the room. Nefret looked around to see whom he talked to.
The apparition raised a finger to point to his chest… no.. He pointed to the girl he held in front of him. Mozenrath’s eyes wandered the man’s features and he bolted at the similarity to those that he saw on a daily basis. His grip on Nefret loosened ever so slightly. “I don’t understand….”
The thing scowled at him. “You’ve ruined her life.” He growled with all the protective instincts of a parent. “You’ve ruined so many lives. Now they seek revenge!” The man cried and from behind Mozenrath a vase lunged forward, shattering on his back, sending splinters of glass through the material of his shirt to scratch his skin.
Mozenrath grunted and lurched into Nefret. The girl panicked and struggled hard. “I see nothing!! Nothing!!” she cried and pulled from his clinging grasp, terrified of what a mad mind might do to her. She skittered away, scattering the grains of salt.
Mozenrath reached for her again but she was already on her feet and backing away. Backing right into the apparition.. The one she didn’t see…. “Nefret!!” He cried. “Stay back…” He warned the ghostly man.
The spirit seemed to soften as Nefret came near. Slowly he approached her and looked into her face, into her unseeing eyes. Before he vanished his hand stoked her cheek lightly. Nefret flinched but nothing else. Nothing else…….
Sixth chime is
the charm
Hands tangled in the hair above his ears Mozenrath sat in the library watching a mumluk sweep up the spilled ring of salt. Nefret had run from him…. She had turned to hide her wide eyes and careened out the doorway. Maybe she was right, there was nothing to see. Maybe his mind was going. It happened to all the great evils, did it not?
He laughed at the thought. Maybe you didn’t hit your most evil pinnacle till you’d gone a bit insane… this could be a good thing. With a deep heave of breath he sat straight up in his chair to look upon his domain. With the life he lead the weight of dead bodies was bound to grown upon his consciously. Now the dam had broken and his mind was taking him on a guilt trip. Well… you suppress all human emotion so long and it’s bound to happen. All right then.
“Come on damn you!!! Ring!!!!!!!” He threw his head back and screamed. “Ring damn you!”
As if in answering the noise came. Long and lingering in the air, with echoes cling and fading into one another.
*bong*
“Yes yes. Come on.” He laughed hoarsely.
*bong*
*bong*
In her room Nefret froze in her chair at the sudden morbid ring. She closed her eyes, like a child in a thunderstorm. It was an unreasonable fear… no basis what so ever. But for some reason that sound, the bell coming over the air, made her heart leap… Now more than ever, after her master…
“What if he’s right?” that strange doubt entered her mind coaxed by the childish fear coursing in the most primitive depths of her brain. And for a second she believed him.. Only because in that frozen moment in time as a “bong” rang out anything seemed possible. Even his loon ravings. Another “bong” made her open her eyes…. And freeze….. She smelled something slight and rancid…. Mozenrath’s words echoed in her ears ‘cant you at least smell them?’ And as she began to believe the smell got worse and worse till it was consuming.
The last bell rang out then with a heavy “bong” and like static the dust and mist gathered… Into forms… so many forms. Three or four in that room alone. Nefret’s breath quickened as she looked upon their faces… so hideous…. Her hand slammed to her mouth to keep from screaming. The sickness was overwhelming her and only one thought got though her muddled head. ‘Run’
Nefret tore down the hall, masses of spirits lining every corner and clinging to every column. Soo many…… She skited into the library to find Mozenrath sitting in the chair, knuckles white as he griped the armrest. His head downcast as he tried to ignore the spirits as they clawed and cried at him.
“I see them!!!!!!!” Nefret burst though the crowd of specters. She fell by his feet and grabbed his hand, trying not to look around for anything. Moze raised his eyes from his lap to look at her questionly. “I see them now. They’re real!” Her eyes were wide and her heartbeat nearly audible. Soooooo he wasn’t insane… these things were real. That brought a strange peace
Seven bells toll
They never did stay long, these unearthly visitors. A few slow agonizing minuets of moaning and whining of their painful and premature death at his hands and the spirits left Mozenrath to his own mind. Yet each time the bell tolled more and more came… came to remind him of his bloody past deeds, of all that he had ruined and wasted. What did they want? Did they only want him to feel guilt? Did they not know he had not the bone in his body capable of guilt past a few lingering regrets that made him flinch when remembered? Did they want revenge?…… ah yes, that must be it. But why had they not taken it yet? Why didn’t they toy with him….. ahhhhh why else.
Mozenrath sighed as he lit the last candle in the room. Sixteen… sixteen white candles… Not much protection could be offered for ghosts… but sixteen white candles was supposedly one of their vexes. Nefret opened the door, looking around slightly in the bright, flickering light before hauling a bag over her shoulder and entering. And entered happily I should add. Walking in the halls… now…. After what she had seen… alone, was scary even for one as cynical and jaded as Neffie.
“All ready to make martinis for our guests?” Nef laughed as she handed over the bag of salt.
Moze rolled his eyes, she had to use her dry humor on every occasion that called for a serious discourse. He smiled and jammed a knife into the bottom of the sack and, taking it from her, made a circle around the candelabras, allowing a place in the middle for him and her. Encircled in that ring of flame and salt they should be safe from the attacks of angry geists.
****
In agrabah: The woman took in a deep breath as she sat down. Oh the baby was kicking something fierce now. By all the Nile! This child shall be strong as an ox all the days of his or her life! She laughed and rubbed her belly, flinching in between carols of laughter. Time was nearing, tomorrow morning she shall have to pack up and head back home to wait out this child and have it on Egyptian soil. For no child of hers would be delivered into the hands of foreigners! She huffed, She liked Agrabah but… she didn’t want these Muslims to be the first to touch her new baby. This would not please the gods.
The soon to be mother lay her head back and listens to the bells ring seven times over the evening air.
Here the bells, iron bells, eight score.
Mozenrath dressed his wound. A series of tears across the top of his good hand. Caused by one of the candelabra’s crashing down upon his appendage. It had become a war, a war of nerves and voices between him and these spirits…. These victims of his. And yes they were his victims… all of them in some respect. The little girl, the king from the east, the woman in the sari, the man in the Egyptian kilt who bore to great a resemblance to his minion to be placed for anyone else than her fabled father…. The hundreds of others that had appeared at his doorstep last hour.
In one way or another he had killed them all, be they innocent bystanders in a small town he happened to demolish, or one of his old vanquished enemies … their blood was on his hands or their lives destroyed or suffered from him. By Allah they did seem a big crowd when all gathered together…. More than he even thought were on his toll list. And each hour he’d recognize one of their faces more than the other… it would be one of his rivals or enemies… each hour the level of the foe grew worse.
Nefret flipped though the magic book. By Hathor ghost didn’t come with many defenses against them. You could ward off vampires with silver and holy implement, you could curse a witch with salt, you could kill a zombie with pure light, but against a ghost you were without much on your side. Mayhap it was the fact that they were made of nothing physical, they were, all and all, pure energy. Energy gathered from the air and twisted in such a way to manifest in any way the spirit might see fit.
To the credit of some chivalrous act on Mozenrath’s part Nefret was without a scratch.
“Well?” Moze quipped and tightened the last of the bandages.
“16 white candles… rings of salt…..”
“Oh yes, that worked SOOOOO well last time.” He snorted.
“Blessing the house, physic communication to ask the spirits to leave…”
“I don’t think they will go quietly into the night when asked.” Moze sneered at her suggestions in that way that could make anyone feel ignorant. “I suppose we shall bless the Citadel.”
The bells bells bells bells bells bells bells bells bells!
Nefret dressed her wound. A shallow gash at hip level from a flying kitchen knife. It had raddled on the counter, only the slightest warning, before it had flown though the air to graze her hip and implant itself in the wood of the table just as the last of nine bells rung.
Mozenrath rubbed his head, the frankincense swinging from the caster during the makeshift blessing had taken its toll on his brain. Just a half hour ago their voices had echoed off every hallway in the manor house in long, dull Latin verses. Nefret swinging the incense and reading the verses over Mozenrath’s shoulder as they walked the halls and gateways. Time had slipped so far from them that when the bells had begun they were in the kitchen and unprepared for the hourly visitors.
Though it seemed the visitors were quite prepared for them. Mozenrath stared at the wound on Nefret as the gauze covering it turned dark in a spot and spread. He’d seen the man to throw it…. an old beggar man…. A man he had once passed on the street. A man who had tugged on his cape and asked for a penny. A man he had immediately blasted and blinded for his beseeching. A man that had later died for being too blind to see a horse and cart before he crossed the street.
Mozenrath closed his eyes from the blood spotting Nefret’s bandage and shut his mind to the thought of the man.. his signature and mark written across his minions own hip. Slowly he set back in the chair and let out a heave a breath. “Little minion, I believe it’s time we try a new strategy.”
***
The Egyptian diplomat clutched her swollen gut and clung with the other hand to the back of chair. Aladdin looked desperate.
“Your baby is coming within hours! Let the doctor..” Aladdin pleaded persuasively as the respectable Muslim doctor stepped forward along with his equally respectable Muslim wife.
“I will not have the hands of infidels be the first to touch my baby!” The delivering woman cried. “My baby will feel the hands of an Egyptian! He will not be cursed with the fingerprints of someone who doesn’t’ believe in my gods!” The woman, though in pain of contractions, set her face hard and would not budge.
Aladdin thought for a moment. “I know of one Egyptian woman we can reach in time.” He sighed ruefully, for visiting Mozenrath at this late hour was not his idea of fun.
“And who is she?” the woman panted as another kicking pain came over her.
“A slave.” Aladdin breezed, but as a snort rang out he added, “but she was once a priestess in Egypt.”
“She will do.” The woman relented. “She will have to do. Take me to this one.”
Ten heartbeats replaced by the tolling
Never has the Citadel seen such glitz and glam. That place had always been one of gloom, with dark walls, dark motifs, dark curtains, and dark floors. The decorator was obviously in a morbid state of life when he furbished this place.
But this one room, the warmest room in the manor, the Red Room was now the center of all things bright and beautiful. Against the cherry silks and tapestries billowing from the ceiling and draping the walls glinted all things good and pleasing in life. There was music from a magic sitar, there was the finest wine, the most rich chocolate, the most pleasing scents from incense burners, pungent aromas from the clouds of opium wafting from the water pipe. There was gold and crimson, and rich earth tones, there was yellow warm light and the edges of everything were soft and blurry. There was beautiful dress and glinting jewelry. There was, in that room, a little private party. A party of two.
Mozenrath relaxed back on a cluster of pillows, actually happy as he munched a fig and listened to the music. Nefret sat on a lofty perch, humming along to the sound and being served trinkets and treats from mumluks. The warm light from the sconces lit everyone and everything in a warm glow, as if the entire room had been dipped in gold leaf. It was generally mild and content scene as Mozenrath and Nefret indulged, perhaps overly, in the finnier things in life. Food, drink, fine clothing, gold ornaments, good music, forgotten poetry, humor and wit…..
Oh but what use this private party? What nerve did they have to be merry and festive then, when they were in dire straights each hour? From the ghosts…. Ah ghosts born out of gruesome dark circumstances, ones that reveled in the dismal gloom of the citadel wall and Mozenrath’s own mind. These beings were nothing but bad energy left over in the room. To fill the room with a good energy should neutralize them. This was the purpose of such a taking in of such luxury and opulence. A fine party to drive away the sad spirits.
*bong*
“My dear woman, did you, by chance, hear something just now?” Mozenrath asked of Nefret in a tone one might give when ignoring someone by pretending to be deaf, blind and dumb to them.
“Why, no. I believe I did not.” Nefret snuffed with all the snood of an aristocrat.
And so they both went on sipping wine and eating rich food as the bells rang out…….. 10 bells, 10 hours into their plight. And from the door came scratches and moans. Voices recognized by Mozenrath. Terrifying threats came from behind the closed door mixed with crashing sounds and cries of anger and agony. But inside the room they remained free of the dead, save for a few undead servants, and the warm light never faltered and the chocolate was just as sweet. So the party continued unabated by the sounds from outside as the hour went on.
***
Aladdin pulled a blanket around the crying woman and bit his lip, hoping the wagon would arrive at the citadel door in time. Magic was no means of transport for a woman in such a delicate position. Damn it all.
Eleven is my number
Mozenrath gave a lazy sigh and set down his wine as Nefret hummed and rubbed her stuffed belly. The noises from outside had long since died out and the fires from the sconces dulled and cast a warmer light upon their content faces. The bottle lay empty and the platter sat bare. The incense was down to its last dwindling snakes of smoke and the music had turned low and soft.
Neither knew what time it was or how close to the hour, though they realized they had been lounging a long time since the ghost had left without joining the party. But neither really cared. The plan had worked. The happy atmosphere drove the gloom away.
Nefret lay, possibly flopped on a group of pillows reading aloud some silly tale that had none to do with anything but pure entertainment as Mozenrath dozed in a chair, empty glass in hand.
Soon Nefret’s voice was cut out by the tolling of the bells. A slight inconvenience. And so they waited for the last of eleven tolls, thoroughly expecting to be let alone by the visitors and continue on with the tale. This was not to be.
Slowly the door creaked open and once new party goes stepped in, seemingly unaffected by the warm cheer in the room. The ghost smiled, a black broken smile and greeted their shocked faces, each of them drawn out of the effects of food and wine at the sight of him. He, the brave soul who was able to bear the ocean of good cheer and keep his little raft of gloom afloat in the room. He who was strong enough an evil to do so. He who knew both of them. He who had faced them as a ghost before.
Nefret dropped the book, her hand going to her gut. Mozenrath growled and let the gauntlet flare, a useless but instinctual act. “Hadim.” The voice rolled off his tongue leavening a sour taste behind.
“It is I, come again to visit.” The things laughed, good-naturedly it seemed. Haidm gazed, with a friendly smile, at their fear, horror, and anger. “Oh don’t be that way! I have come to you not as a murder this time.” He breezed in and sat down, all to close to Nefret, who jumped away and next to Mozenrath. “I come as a messenger of your murderer!” It laughed.
Anger boiled in him and Mozenrath let out a bolt from his hand, passing it straight though the vapory man. “Talk sense.” He hissed out.
“Not much sense has been around here has it dear old Mozenrat? Ghosts each hour. Ghosts you made! Oh but surly you’ve noticed them.” Again her gave a charming rotten smile. “And each hour they have increased in number and ferocity…. As if leading up to something…” There was a hinting tone in Hadim’s voice.
“What coming?” Nefret piped up with the same question on Mozenrath’s tongue.
“Who’s the biggest ghost you’ve made Mozy? Who?” Hadim chocked out a laugh before slowly dissolving. “Have a good witching hour.”
The sorcerer suddenly broke out in trembles. His whole body and mind ached. No… no… not him… anybody but him!!!! He could face a horde of angry ghosts, vengeful gods, thousands of armies.. But not him. Oh Allah not HIM!!!!!!!!!!
Mozenrath’s hands came up to slide against the sides of his head and tangle in the hair behind as he set his head downward and shook violently. “Not him.. Not him…” he repeated over and over in a chocking voice. “Oh Allah! Please no.” He nearly sobbed. What could bring him to such a state? Only one thing on this earth…. Only one person…..
Dimly he was aware of a pair of arms around his shoulders. Scared, confused, quivering arms but beyond it all comfortingly arms. ‘Did she know?’ he wondered deep in his mind. ‘Does she understand why I’m so scared… could she? Does she know who’s coming? Does she know what kind of man?’ But his wondering was hushed as Nefret let out a sound like a mother…. “shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
Call in
the witching hour
Mozenrath was ashamed of himself. Ashamed he had broke down like that, ashamed he had let Nefret see, ashamed he had evoked in her such an instinct as to take him in her arms and murmur motherly things to him. Grateful to her for some odd reason, but embarrassed. For that reason he had gathered himself back up and moved from her. Locked himself in his study to think. Think about what was to come, think about what had happened years ago, think that it may happen again…… suddenly the shaking returned and Moze resolved to let his mind take him down it’s deep trails till he had to go and face the bells.
Nefret sighed as she paced the halls, waiting… wondering….. by Hathor this waiting was driving her nuts! Why must hours be so long!!!! If something big and unavoidable was going to come let it come and get the waiting over! Suddenly a knock rang out.
A fear gripped the girl. She had wished it and now… was that it at the door? Suddenly she felt none to ready. “Who is it?” She whispered, face pressed against the door and heart pounding.
“Nefret? Oh thank Allah.” Came a relived male voice… was it familiar? “Please let us in!”
Us? Nefret creaked open the door and looked out, Aladdin, looking frazzled and a pregnant woman in mid delivery. She pulled them in suddenly, throwing the birthing woman on the nearest couch. She glared at Aladdin. “What business do you have bringing this woman here!” She sounded fierce then, mostly mad that he had put himself and the woman in danger by coming here during this dire time. But how would he have known?
Aladdin blanched at her sudden turn in demeanor. “Nefret…. She would have no Muslim touch the baby. You’re the only one I know………”
Nefret sighed, turning soft, and closed her eyes. “Leave Aladdin. For your own sake leave.” She pleaded. Aladdin hesitated, looking at the woman. “Go Aladdin, you have no responsibility here. Go.” She looked away, leaving no room for argument… so he left, sensing something was happening.
Mozenrath looked skyward and swallowed his dread with a loud gulp. So…. It was almost time was it? Then there was nothing to do except gather the forces he planed to face it with…
“Neffie, come…” the sorcerer stopped as he entered the room his minion occupied. She was not alone. In her care was a woman, huffing and puffing in her labor. His plum haired minion pressing on her stomach and smoothing her hair in much the mothering fashion she had displayed earlier. “Explain this to me!” He bellowed as Nefret looked up, wide eyed, weather in the excitement of the birth or the shock of his yell, ah that was unknown. “Explain it!” He yelled and reared her up by the arm.
Nefret swung for a moment before regaining leverage. “I cannot, for the life of me, explain it to you. She is here and that is all that is clear. Shall you let her die? Shall you Master?” Her last word dripped with crass. “Will you add her ghost to the coming ones?” She spat.
Mozenrath raised his head high and dropped her, his gut clenching at the insight she often spouted as to his life. He looked from her set face, staring deep into his, he could not have such deep looks… else she know what he was thinking. “With what is coming it will not matter.” He muttered and flinched when she made a small noise. Was it all that bad? Relenting her sat down in a nearby chair and set his head in his hands. “Than make it quick. Ripe that child into this world and throw them out the door.” He sighed the order. The expression on his face told all and made the plum haired woman cringe in moral fear.
Her mouth opened, than clamped shut as a sound rung in the air….. not the sound of the screaming woman, not the sound of a child crying… not the sound of any hope. The sound of a bell, great iron bell.
*bong*
And the air clouded with a stench and dread crept over the living.
*bong*
And the scuffling sound came down the halls, like thousands of rough and tattered bone bloody feet.
*bong*
And the laboring woman screamed causing her fellow county woman to drop between her upraised legs and ready her hands to catch.
*bong*
And the door slowly opened, creaking on old hinges as horrid mangled arms reached in to claw the air. And the woman let out a bellow and pushed hard.
*bong*
And the door flew open with vengefulness beyond this world and into the next as hundreds upon hundreds of souls long passed and suffering still burst in to line the walls, climb the corners, cling to the ceiling, perch on the windowsill and crawl the floor. Spectator waiting…………..
*bong*
And Mozenrath looked among them and recognized faces…. Faces that
glared back him with hatred that spanned years and the metaphysical world.
*bong*
And from off the tables ripped vases, statuettes, bottles, heavy ornaments, and sharp implement to propel themselves round and round the room, shattering against or implanting themselves in the walls. Hitting each of the living with a pelt of bruises and sore bones. Nefret covered the woman’s stomach with her own body and Mozenrath flung himself to tent his person and his minion in the folds of his midnight cloak to protect them from the airborne glass shards.
*bong*
And from the walls let out a chant of dead voices. “He is coming, he is coming”
*bong*
And as Mozenrath huddled the girl in the shelter of his cape the velvety black cloth walls dented in, as something heavy was heaved upon them, hitting Nefret smack dab in the head as she worried over the birthing woman. Soundlessly she fell to the floor, arms sprawled and eyes shut almost peacefully. And on the floor she lay sleeping.
*bong*
And Mozenrath threw himself on her and pleaded that she wake, pleaded that she not leave him alone with the screeching woman and his worst fear. But not a move did she make in her peaceful slumber. Panicking he looked around as the doorway widened itself in preparation of the coming guest. The room seemed to breath as the voices rose “He’s coming!!!” And the woman screamed and pushed harder and a round black haired globe made its first appearance.
*bong*
And the sorcerer smelled the rotting flesh and doom upon the wind and a singularly familiar feeling, the feeling that sometimes invaded his dreams, dreams he woke from screaming. He was coming…. Then facial features of a babe drew out of it’s mother slightly twitching and in an unthinking act Mozenrath reach to grasp that head and, as he instructed his now sleeping minion, he ripped the child into the world. Screaming along with the new infant as the winds picked up, pushing the smell into his nose and the violating feeling grew upon itself. Mozenrath wrapped his arms into his chest and lowered his torso into his knees on the floor and waited………….
*BONG*
And the sorcerer tore from the position, flinging his upper body into the air as his head fell back to call along with the bell.. yelling “He’s coming!” The birthing blood dripped from his hands, dripped from his finger and ‘plated’ onto the floor between his knees. And the giest let out a sound and pointed to the crimson fluid. A new blood lay on Mozenrath’s hands, not that of death, that of……….. life. Transfixed they looked at him, all silent, all calm, all frozen to watch the new blood and the new life squirm in the sorcerer’s arms.
Slowly they lowered their arms and their ugly visage faded, burns, cuts, open oozing wounds closed upon them and they took on a new look. They looked almost…. Lovely. Now beautifully glowing beings with smiling faces and a sweet sigh. The doorway lost its heaving appearance as if the precession of the new guest was halted and the ghosts turned to file out of it, each dissolving to vapor upon it’s threshold. Gone to a better place, a place of peace to bother the living no more. They left the room with a cool feeling as they left, the ornaments and vases scattered and smashed on the floor, the curtains still flapping, but the shadows crept away and left.
Mozenrath sat heaving for a second. It was over… they were gone…. Gone because he had the blood of life now spilled upon him. One birth made up for a thousand deaths. And he looked at the squealing babe in his arms, mouth agape and a sudden new terror filled him.
At his side Nefret groaned and sat up. Cursing and rubbing the goose egg forming on the back of her head. Slowly she looked around confused…. All was quiet all was calm. The mother was lying heaving on the couch, eyes closed as she recovered and Mozenrath held a new babe, to terrified move. Nefret smiled and relived him of the fear, taking the babe into her own arms and rocking it softly. Slowly he lowered his arms and let out a breath as he nearly collapsed, the feeling of fear and anger and anxiety leaving the sorcerer all at once leaving a tired shell.
“My baby?” came a weak but content voice.
Nefret grinned and brought it close to his mothers face. “A boy.” She whispered. Mozenrath looked up from his hands to watch and listen to the exchange. “What do you name the child?” She smoothed the baby onto the mother’s bosom.
“Sinuhe.” The mother sighed and looked to Nefret. “Tell me, what is the date of my child’s birth?” Mozenrath, as well, looked to Nefret, getting up to sit beside her and look down at the new mother.
Nefret smiled and leaned back as a quiet calm overtook the air and everything once again seemed to be red and gold with rich earth tones bathed in warm yellow light, with soft and blurry edges. “Today is the 31st day of October. Your son’s birthday is All Hollow’s Eve."