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| Black Tower for ASP Music Clip by Jacklionheart |
It was in
the brown of Autumn that I found the dead body of my brother, David. His eyes
were open, of course, fixated on whatever horror he had set himself upon. Or,
rather, that had set upon him. His skin was dried flour, cracked into little
caverns of tissue that overran with dark maroon. And the smell . . . . . I
always thought dead bodies were supposed to smell of putrid disgust. Not David.
He smelled like lilac. And it was serene.
He was
locked within his tower. If I am to explain the mystery surrounding my
brother’s death, I must also tell you of his tower. He called it his Black
Spire. He loved it more than his own family. Evidently, more than his own life.
If I am to tell this tale, you must promise never to even dare whisper it as
the most sacred of secrets. There are certain things which one must not say.
Things which are forbidden to the tongue. And God hears all.
David and I
grew up together very close, on my father’s estate in Westchester County. The
hills surrounding the fields we ran in were luxuriant and ample with vegetation
fit for the likes of royalty. My father was no royalty, but made plenty of
friends in advantageous positions in society. I believe he had something to do
with maintaining their positions within the public eye, though we never dared
pry into Papa’s business. His purpose was to secure our practical stability.
Nothing more. So things have always been in the Corrigan family lineage.
Mother died
when I was young. Father said it was cancer. I found out later through
Harriett, the maidservant, that the poor wretch drank herself to death. She was
also found with a needle in her arm, junk in her system. I never encountered
father on this, though I did tell David. The sweet boy cried for days. I do not think he ever really got
over it.
“Victoria,”
David would plead to me with liquid eyes and slick cheeks. “How? How could Mama
ever be so evil?”
“The sinful
are easily led astray by the temptations of the Devil, my brother,” I would
tell him.
“Does this
mean Mama is in hell?”
“Of
course,” I explained. “She died in sin. We cannot mourn her now. Understand
that Papa did not tell us so we would not have to live in shame, as he does
now. The House of Corrigan has forever been tainted. It was for our protection.
We shall not think of Mama anymore. To do so would be an anathema to our very
souls.”
And then,
as he wept in my lap, I read him the Holy Scriptures. He was most fond of
Chronicles and the exploits of King David, of course. We used to run into the
fields and fell giants with rocks, singing to the hills for the glory of
Israel. His most favorite verse during these times of torment was from I
Chronicles 17: “ . . . . I declare to you that the Lord will build a house for
you: When your days are over and you go to be with your fathers, I will raise
up your offspring to succeed you, one of your own sons, and I will establish
his kingdom.” I am sure he fell asleep dreaming of his very own house, built by
and for the Lord thy God.
When we
grew older David went off to university while I looked after the Corrigan
estate. My duties were to manage and
uphold the inner workings of the house, servants, farmhands, and after sometime
the finances. Papa had grown ill and was very near to his deathbed. David and I
had always written to each other during this time. He was majoring in theology
and hoped to one day attain a pastorship over a local congregation. Upon
hearing of Father’s terminal condition, he made arrangements to come home for a
visit. I sent a courier to retrieve him for a week’s period, and he arrived the
next day.
I cannot
express the bounteous joy I felt when I saw my little brother walk into the
foyer of our grand house. With resplendent bliss I bounded down the stairway
and embraced him with such a love only angels could sing about. I was so happy
to have him back. So happy to feel the warmth by brother can offer with his
love and devotion. And then . . . . she followed in behind him. Long hair, like
coal, and lipstick bright as the neon sign of brothels. Her clothes were
revealing and her mannerisms whorish.
“Who is
this?” I asked with utter contempt.
“Sister,”
David smiled, oblivious to my disconcerting glares. “This is Monica, my new
girlfriend.”
“Girl . . .
. friend?”
“Yes. I met
her at university. She’s quite brilliant. I cannot wait for you to get to know
her. Monica, this is my sister, Victoria.”
She did not
even extend a hand for a proper greeting. She smirked, her lips curling into a
Babylonian tease, and merely nodded in my direction.
“Hey,” she
said.
I could not
breathe. I felt a boulder of rock stuck in my throat. But, before I could
correct the wicked knave, David grabbed us both and drug us through the house
in a fit of whimsical joy. He was intent on reliving the glory days of old, and
I did not want to ruin that for him. I would have to wait to deal with Monica
for another time.
After hours
of play we gathered around Papa’s bedside who granted his last will and
testament: the fortunes of his estate were to be split between the two of us
equally. The lawyer was present and finalized all of the paperwork. A day
later, Papa died. The day after that he was buried in the Old Creek Churchyard,
next to Mama. May God rest his soul.
The rest of
the week was spent with David and Monica. I will relay an occurrence which became
an important turning point in both our lives, because I believe it to be the
final severance in our once great relationship as brother and sister. I was searching out David and the harlot
Monica one evening for a cup of tea when I discovered them in the study. They were perusing the Corrigan library of
books and I inquired as to their liking of sugar or honey for flavorings. They
seemed more interested in an aged tome of Papa’s entitled The Lesser Key of
Solomon.
“Ah,” I
smiled. “Solomon the Wise. Is this an examination of his Songs written for the
glory of our Lord?”
“It is
written by Solomon, yes,” David answered. “Or so the translation by Mathers
says. Though it is not on the Songs, my sister.”
“Then
what?”
“It is a
detailed listing of the descriptions of the Dukes of Goetia,” Monica
interrupted the conversation. “And of how to conjure and command each one.”
“Dukes of
what?” I puzzled. I felt an indiscernible sense of malaise.
“Goetia,”
Monica began again. “Some of the most higher demons of Hell. Solomon learned
how to command each one to his bidding.”
“What?”
shock ran like an electric current through my body. “How did this cursed volume
make its way into our Father’s blessed library?”
“It is
Papa’s,” David begged. “His inscription is on the first page. He wanted me to
have it. It is all right, beloved sister. It is the written word of Solomon the
King. It is our rite by God to command the lower regions of the Inferno.”
“Blasphemy,”
I spat.
“Calm
down,” the wicked girl cocked her head in my direction. “This is legitimate
sorcery. Taught to us and handed down by the Gnostic Church.”
“Sorcery!
Gnostic Church?!?! What kind of wickedness have you brought to our great house,
woman?!?!” I became enraged. I screamed for repentance of our blessed Savior
Jesus. In my anger I turned over a table and books scattered across the floor,
kicking up curls of dust. “Out, witch! Out, I say!”
“Sister,
make calm!” poor David pleaded to me. “She is no witch. I have studied this in
my learnings at the university. We are of the same belief. It has only been
hidden from us for centuries . . . . .”
“Out both
of you!!!” I hollered. The force of God possessed me and I knew nothing of that
moment but to cast out the demons which had invaded my household. “ Never come
back again! Take your devils and infernos and make leave!!”
So, they
did. But not without that unholy woman making an obscene gesture toward me
before she left. I never saw David again until he died. Though he did often
write to me. I never wrote back. What I disclose now are some of the letters
which my brother sent me through the next several years. Letters which I shall
burn after this publication. Most of them were unintelligible drivel, but I
shall reveal the few that seem most important. So read them, dear reader. And
beware of the wickedness of man!!
~ ~ ~
Dearest
Victoria,
I know of
the troubles between our love for one another and cannot describe the agony
which it has flayed upon my heart. Every waking moment I pray to our God that
our bond can once again reunite. Save that you understand my exploits, which I
will try to explain to you within these letters.
I have
taken the fortunes which have been bestowed upon me from Papa’s last will and
testament, and I have dedicated myself to finding the true meaning of Divinity.
Within this quest, I have taken it upon myself to study the magicks of Solomon
the King, and of Abramelin the Mage. Both are men of God, my Sister, and not
the devil-worshippers you have made them out to be. They worship the God of Abraham,
the One True God. They have found the truest path of Righteousness and have
laid their Word down for us to follow. I beseech you to listen to my every
word, that you may one day sympathize with my yearning for unity with the
Sublime.
With this
vast fortune at my disposal, I have purchased a plot of land within the forests
of Fairfax. I intend to make this my refuge, my fortress of solitude where I
may carry out the Great Work, which is the path of divinity laid down by
Abramelin. I am seeking union with our God, Victoria. It is not the work of
heathens. Please take with salt the behaviors which I will display before you.
I seek the respect of you and only you, my dear VIctoria. Forgive me with the
grace of God.
Your
brother,
David
Corrigan
~ ~ ~
That letter
came six months after I last saw him. After that, I received a few about his
studies into ancient texts of people who I can only describe as agents of Evil.
The next letter I will disclose came about another five to six months after
that.
~ ~ ~
Dearest
Victoria,
I bear news
which I am sure is befitting to your satisfaction. Monica has left me. She
believes I am mad. I think she is a coward who cannot face the Truth of the
Light. Left me explain why:
I purchased
a castle in Turkey which belonged to the lineage of the Spaniard family of
Cervantes. It was the home of seven generations of nobility which were renowned
for their nefarious brutality amoung the peoples of a province which no longer
exists under the new regime. Duke Edvard Cervantes was the last of hs line, and
used the fortress as a haven for his destructive perversities. He would
routinely kidnap children, both boys and girls, from the surrounding villages
and would torture them within the underground catacombs of his ancestors. It is
even rumored that he would drink the blood of his victims in hopes of
retrieving immortal life. It is my intention to use the energies of these
abhorrent events to my advantage, for they are strong within the castle.
How is
that, you say? It is the philosophy of those of whom I have studied that the
power of such events can be used to one’s advantage when handling the aspects
of the supernatural. I cannot delve into detail as of now, but trust that my
personal journals will undoubtedly explain my reasoning of this matter.
Also, you
may inquire as to how a castle in Turkey can be connected to my property in
Fairfax. I have commissioned an engineer to tear down the Cervantes’ palace and
bring the remains over to my estate, stone by cursed stone. And then, to construct
for me a place which I may carry out the alchemy of my Great Work. It is a
tower which will reach above the surrounding
forests with a majesty that not even Babel could compare. It will
penetrate the skies like a sword of devotion to my commitment to our Lord. I
will have it painted the color of the raven, as the noble Poe would describe.
Within this tower, which I shall call the Black Spire, I will concoct my augury
of which I will receive Divine wisdom and communion with the angels. I hope you
do not doubt me, my beloved sister. You have never doubted my intelligence
before, so why would you now? Your silence is troubling to me. I must receive
your complete applause before I am to achieve full and complete communion with
the spirits which await me. Please send me word. Anything. I miss you.
Your
beloved little brother,
David
Corrigan
~ ~ ~
It was a
year until I heard from him again. As much as I prayed for the soul lead
astray, he continued to act blindly on the part of sin and corruption.
~ ~ ~
My Victoria,
My Spire is
complete. It is a dark place inside the heavenly aspects of Fairfax. I am so
alone here, since Monica has been fully gone. I need to hear from you. I am
destitute in my solitude. The spiraling corridors which I have designed have
turned into a labyrinth of gloom and
aphotic complexity. I have not left the confines of my new home for weeks. My
servant, Silas, goes to the nearby hamlet for food and necessities. Though I
very rarely eat. I do nothing but study. And I have reached major success as to
my Golden Quest.
The other
night under the new moon, I created a circle of concealment on the floor of the
room in the highest recesses of the Spire. This room is my temple. And on the
hour of midnight I conjured the being of FURFEIL, an High Earl of the Lesser
Regions. He appeared to me in the form of a beast, antlers like an elk which
reached four heads above my own. He crouched with bat-like wings behind him,
with a tail searing with the very fires of hell. I have to admit, my bodily
functions released upon themselves in my wholesome terror of the sight. Though
I still gathered the courage to ask of him questions I needed to continue my
studies, for he can give a summoner True Knowledge of the Secrets to Divinity.
And what he told me, dear sister! Oh, what he told me! I cannot describe to
you the knowledge which courses through
my veins at this very moment! I am like in a trance of opium bliss, floating on
the Sacred Blood of the Ancients. I am so close, my sister. So close to
achieving communion with the One God.
Though, I
am paralyzed with fear. My Black Spire has taken to playing tricks with my own
holy mind. Throughout all hours of the night and day, doors slam and I hear
footsteps running throughout the stairwells. At times I hear the cries of
little girls and little boys, and I wonder if it is the very cries of Duke
Cervantes’ victims whilst he be skinning them alive and eating their very
flesh. I have tried to set up wards of the spirit to cast out these violent
phantoms which invade my halls. But, to no avail. I shall dig deeper into the
ancient magicks. Maybe I will find a spell which will grant me peace until I
finish my journey.
My love to
you, my beloved sister. Please write. I long to read your words. I remember
them and they were always a comfort to me. Now, in my moments of turmoil, they
would be a solace. I beg you to respond. Please . . . .
Forever
yours,
David
Corrigan
~ ~ ~
I never
responded, of course. Many letters came still, and the madness continued. And
then, the final letter, which I shall reveal to you. But be warned, it is not
for the weak-hearted. You must be strong in the Lord. I warn you. Do not tread
the arena of the Devil lightly, for his trickery will seduce thee:
~ ~ ~
My Love,
The
suggestion of a commandment is illusive. I have forgone any conclusion of
thought. What I now write to you could be my last breath to the world, so take
it with care and decisiveness. I have reached a moment of unknown clarity that
few on Earth I am sure could never achieve. A clarity which has revealed a
Truth beset by sheer terror and anguish of which we have all been deceived.
Do NOT seek
the path of the Universal Truth! The God of which we receive communion is not
the Savior of Mercy which we had once thought! The fabric has been lifted, and
only that which exists is replete and total HORROR!
In my last
moments, let me try my best to explain:
I had
reached my final Sphere of the Universal Path of the Tree of Life. For this
ritual, I had gathered a virgin child of noble birth, a young girl named
Karenina (like Tolstoy). Promising her riches and charms, I knocked her
unconscious and stripped her of her garments. Binding her elevated above a
pentacle as appropriately transcribed by the mages of old, I waited until she
was awake to begin my songs and calls to the Enochian Angel of the Seventh
Aether. My last connection to the Universal One. Whilst I stood in my violet
robes, she screamed the panicked cries
of innocence. I could swear her wails were accompanied by the chorus of ghosts
which inhabit my home. As I finished my incantation I pulled out a dagger
cursed by the mage Crowley, and slit the soft skin from the back of her pure
body. She was still alive. She went into convulsions and vomited a hoarse
sludge onto the seal I had encrypted on the floor below. Within moments, a
great beast crawled from the recesses of the very pain I had inflicted on the
now miserable child.
This
abomination, known to be an unnamed deity of the Enochian hierarchy, crawled
toward me. It was gargantuan in appearance, and around it emanated a choking
grey fog. I cannot describe its appearance. Save that I can tell you that in
the mere moments of seeing the creature and writing this to you, my hair has
now turned the white of winter’s snow. Again, my intestines released
themselves, but instead of divine bliss (as I believed I should feel) I was
stricken with the unmitigated repugnancy of my actions. Not only have I stolen
a life from its chastity, but I have released a savage evil upon our blessed
world! As the monstrosity reached out for me, I thank God that I was not
paralyzed by fear . . . . I ran! I exited the chamber and stumbled down the
stairway to leave this accursed place which I have damned with my heretical
actions. Though my actions have led me to a damnable luck, for the only door to
which I might exit this place will not open. It is jammed with a magical power
of which I will never understand! With fright, I have found a room at the
bottom of the Black Spire, and I sit here in a dark corner with nothing but my
pen and the light of a candle. The creature is out there, somewhere in the
hallways of my home, searching for me. Soon . . . . it will find me . . . . and
I will be dead. For the memories of our love, it will find me, and tear me to
infinite shreds in an agony that I shutter to know . . . . .
Please
forgive me, my sister. Please forgive my ignorance and the . . . . . . I hear it . . . . it
scratches and claws at the door to which is the only boundary between me and
damnation . . . . . I have only moments .. . . . know that I love you, my dear
sister . . . . . know that the House of Corrigan shall not die with me, but may
live on with you . . . . . . may God, if there is one, have mercy upon my soul
. . . . . “This is the evil in
everything that happens under the sun: The same destiny overtakes all. The
hearts of men, moreover, are full of evil and there is madness in their hearts
while they live, and afterward they join the dead.”
Goodbye, sweet Victoria, I
love . . . . . . . . . . .
~ ~ ~
It is not
unfortunate that my brother should quote Ecclesiastes, chapter 9, in his last
moments on this Earth. It is a proper ending for an improper man possessed with
the evils of the Fallen One.
I do not
need to explain that this last letter was not sent to me, but that I found it
on the carcass of the man which was once a boy that I loved. His correspondence
had troubled me so that I took it upon myself to be responsible over his
salvation, so I arranged to visit him by surprise. Though I regret it was too
late. The sins of his blasphemy had overtaken him. And now before lays a shell
of a man who is the image of our now-dead family. For I will not marry. My
marriage is to God. There is no other. It was up to David to carry on the
Corrigan line of blood. And now, he is gone. Burning in the pits of the Devils
domain. And smelling of sweet, sweet lilac.
I did not
attempt to explore the recesses of the sin-filled Black Spire. After finding
his body, I took the letter and exited, never to return. I ordered Silas and
the other servants to burn the infernal place, raze it to the ground. I
compensated them for their troubles, giving them a month’s wages, and sent them
into their lives with prayers of mercy.
I remember
the way my brother’s vacant eyes stared at me, as I examined his lifeless body.
I remember how empty they were, and the wisdom of David’s favorite verse
recites itself in my mind: “ . . . I declare to you that the Lord will build a
house for you.” Indeed, my brother. Indeed.
Take these
words, dear reader. Take them and be cautious of the steps you take on your
journey of life. There is only one salvation, one path to true righteousness .
. . . . and that is only through the blood of Jesus the Christ. May God bless
your footsteps on the ladder of Jacob. There are evils in this world. Lament
for the weary. Pray for the damned. If you are not careful, it could be you
that is one of the eternal unfortunate.
