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.

            Don’t go near the cursed place of Ol’ Grandfather Hughes!

It was one of those irredeemable autumn twilights when young Mr. Sydney Tedlock decided to take a privy stroll into Winter Wood. Ol’ Grandfather Hughes had warned him, bellowing through purple, toothless gums: “Don’ be lally-gag’n ‘round yonder wood back there now! Tis wild country ou’ there! Liable tu git yerself inna heap o’ trouble!” Young Sydney was lackadaisical, innocently oblivious to caution. Grabbing his favorite stick by the old shed, he took flight down the hill and into the wood.

                Young Sydney swiped a path through the thick brush with his trustworthy oak rod, forging his own path through the suffocating growth of nature.  The moon was rising slyly through spaces between the trees. He sang an old victory song, a battle-chant from many wars ago: “I pounce the stately wicked…to break the evil thicket…of conquering marauders…that spit on God the Father…I know I’ll be in heaven…when I kill seventy-seven…” He continued to roar his triumph until he was interrupted by a subtle sonance deep in the woods. He paused to inquire, the sound rose gradually in volume, like deep tubas wailing underwater. Soon, the entire area was filled with such hoarse baritones that Sydney felt goose bumps rise on his neck.

                Then, it stopped. Before young Sydney had a chance to excuse the occurrence as his imagination gone awry, he heard his name called.

                “Mr. Tedlock, what brings such a fine selection of gaiety to my neck of the woods?”

                The man was barely over half of Sydney’s size. His resplendent grin was outlined by an intricately curled mustache and charcoal lips. His top hat and coat were made of maroon suede, with gold trim. Like a stately aristocrat, he was propped against a walking stick resembling a candy cane. Young Sydney licked his lips at the overwhelming scent of peppermint. He would have carried on the conversation had he not noticed small flashes of movement catching the corner of his eye. He whipped around to find only empty brush; it seemed as if there were unseen things scurrying all around him.

                “I asked you a question, Mr. Tedlock,” the little man grew impatient by the boy’s inability to focus. “I do expect an answer! Am I being just, or just plain rude! I will give you my name…..Mr. Buglesuede, it is!”

                “I’m sorry, sir,” young Sydney began. “I…I haven’t been out here before. I didn’t know anyone lived out here. I thought Grandfather Hughes owned all the land.”

                “So one thinks,” Buglesuede threw his hands in the air. “Always forget I’m hiding in the weeds to spoil the crop, do they? But this is our business! There is a tax to pay, Mr. Tedlock, for crossing paths on my territory!”

                “But…but I have no money to pay a tax, Mr. Buglesuede!”

                “I am no dictator, for Saturn’s sake,” Mr. Buglesuede hissed. “I just want what’s mine, like anyone else! And you, boy, take note: Young Tedlock, age of 10 years, 10 months, 5 days, and a few hours, is cited for Involuntary Trespassing: tree bark fudge and pollen cakes!” He tapped his cane twice on a slab of rock. In a magically swift motion, followed by a trail of nauseous pollen, Mr. Buglesuede drew a roll of parchment from his maroon sleeve and unraveled it before the daunted young Sydney.

                Young Sydney began to read it: “This covenant (i.e. –treaty, i.e.-transaction) is in the interests and associations of one young Mr. Sydney H. Tedlock, age 10 years, 10 months . . . under the allegations and accusations . . . Trespassing (tree bark fudge and pollen cakes) . . . by elongated ward and predecessor of Elysium Sniffleborks and Chopsticks, Mr. Buglesuede (meritorious and merited of the Ménage) . . . the defendant shall hereby acknowledge said accusations and carry out the given sentence . . . shall embark upon himself the privilege and rite of giving upon the Ménage one soul within the confines of one speculum jar . . .”

                Young Sydney’s jaw dropped, “Wait . . . I’ve already signed this?”

                “My, my,” Mr. Buglesuede peered curiously over young Syndey’s shoulder. “It appears you have! How eager of you!”

                “Oh dear,” poor young Sydney wailed. “What am I to tell Grandfather? He’ll rightly be furious with me this time! I’m sure to be getting another beating . . . for giving up my soul of all things!”

                With a snap of his fingers, the parchment rolled itself up and slid into Mr. Buglesuede’s coat sleeve. “Now, young Mr. Tedlock, the contract merely states a soul. Yours specifically does not need to adhere to the said regulations. You could . . . steal somebody else’s, if need be.”

                Young Sydney speculated about the many ins and outs of such a conundrum: if Grandfather Hughes were to know that young Syndey had fallen into this quagmire, surely he would be beaten once again. If, however, he were to give up another soul in place of his, he could do as his Mum used to say before she died: plow two fields with one horse!

                “You have until tomorrow evening, my young sprout,” Mr. Buglesuede bowed a deep and gentlemanly bow. He lifted his head, and with a wink vanished as soon as blink. Just like that, he was gone.

                It was the next day when young Sydney Tedlock had come into the village to report the passing of Ol’ Grandfather Hughes to the proper authorities. The coroner had determined the cause of young Sydney Tedlock’s elder passing was (he coined nervously) “unnatural.” Young Sydney was too young to live alone on the farm and was sent away to a distant aunt. It is said he grew dismal and wretched in the coming years and eventually became retarded in his intelligence. “Possessed of devils,” the reverends say. To this day nobody dare goes to Ol’ Grandfather Hughes’ farm, which sits desolate and dilapidated. Its fields are depreciated, parched, and wrought with famine. It’s only neighbor . . . the dark and somber trees of Winter Wood.