Through The Black Door - Chapter Ten
Max
Just found this story? It starts here: Chapter One
“I guess I’m not here. Leave a message.”
Click.
Karen’s voice is strained, tight with anxiety.
“Mark... I heard about Sainsbury’s... I’m so worried about you. Have you stopped taking your meds again? Please, can we meet up? I want to help...”
Her pause is thick with her assumptions about my sanity. I wait but she doesn’t continue. The message ends.
Stopped taking my meds? It’s always the meds. Any deviation from the mundane, any hint of the strange occurrences that are becoming my norm, and it has to be the meds. It’s so much sasier than confronting the possibility that reality isn’t as stable as she, or anyone else, likes to believe.
The hang-up dial tone is just another judgment.
“I’m Mark Holwood, examiner of local folklore and fortean events, and you are listening to… The Liminal Verses. I’m standing outside a large residence in Brighton,” I murmur into the mic that I’ve tucked in my jacket pocket.
“I can’t reveal the address but the property is almost a small mansion that wouldn’t be out of place in the 1970s Mystery and Imagination TV show. If that means nothing to you, YouTube it.”
The house’s name, Mill View, makes me feel uneasy. I know it from somewhere, as if it’s from some old film. Maybe it was in Mystery and Imagination. Human memory hangs on to the strangest things sometimes.
“There’s a black wrought iron gate with an old fashioned pull bell and a pathway leading through overgrown trees and bushes. I can’t help thinking that this was chosen to create an ambience for the impressionable.”
Or they just don’t employ a gardener.
“The evening is still bright, however, diminishing the overall effect.” Daylight always robs spooky places of some of their power. Real hauntings don’t keep office hours.
I reach out and pull the bell. Nothing happens.
I trace the bell cable as it snakes around the pillar. Peering through the gate, I see it has snapped, rusted by rain over the decades. So, I press on the gate. It scrapes on the concrete, squeaking as I push wide enough to slip through. My feet squelch on the muddy, leaf-strewn path as I walk towards the imposing front door.
“I can see lights in one of the windows and the outlines of people,” I whisper. I feel like a voyeur.
I breathe in and knock on the heavy wooden door.
“I’m half expecting the door to open spookily,” I whisper, knowing I’m being a podcaster filling dead air.
I hear the sound of a latch being drawn back, followed by a long squeak as the door opens inwards. A man stands there, silhouetted against the hallway light.
My brain refuses to process what I’m seeing for a good three seconds.
He’s naked except for an elaborate wooden mask covering his face. The mask extends upward into branching antlers that scrape against the doorframe when he tilts his head. The carved wood is dark and polished in some areas, rough and raw in others. The eyes are hollow empty gaps in the wood, and reveal nothing of the human gaze behind them.
“Hello,” he says. The voice is muffled but I recognise him from our earlier phone call, Carlo, Eli’s contact, the one who facilitated this invitation. The juxtaposition of his casual greeting and his outlandish appearance leaves me speechless for a moment.
My hand, as if with it’s own mind, reaches to touch the mic in my pocket, confirming to myself that yes, I am recording this, and yes, someone else might hear it and confirm I not hallucinating the whole thing.
“Hi,” I manage. My voice comes out as a squeak. Mickey Mouse, much?
I swallow and force myself to relax. “I’m here for the group.”
Carlo doesn’t move aside. I can’t ignore his nakedness, or my discomfort so I focus on the mask, and the intricate carvings that form a face both human and not. Anything to avoid looking down.
“Name?”
“Mark... Mark Holwood.” I’m playing a character in some bizarre theatre production I never auditioned for.
“Ah, the newbie,” he says, a faint smile evident in his voice, if not visible. He steps aside, revealing the dim hallway beyond. “Come in.”
I hesitate at the threshold. Every instinct screams that crossing this boundary will change something fundamental. That I will not be the same Mark Holwood who leaves this place. But then, isn’t that what I came for? To experience something beyond the mundane?
“Am I late?” I ask, stepping over, already feeling like I’ve made a pact I don’t understand.
“No, no, everyone is here but... you’re not... late. Come in.” There’s something in his emphasis that makes me wonder if I’m missing a joke. The antlers on his mask knock the ceiling as he turns to lead me down the hallway.
He leads me through, moving with surprising grace despite the cumbersome headpiece. The antlers cast shadows on the walls as we walk. I can hear footsteps somewhere ahead, and the murmur of voices grows louder as we approach. We step into a high-ceilinged room and I freeze in the doorway, stunned.
Nine more men stand in various clusters throughout the room. All are naked, and each wear a different elaborate mask, except for one. A grimacing demon face with protruding horns and a long, twisted tongue. A pristine white clown mask with an exaggerated red smile. Some cyberpunk creation with metal components and tubes pumping a fluorescent liquid around the perimeter.
What strikes me even more than the masks is the variety of bodies. They range in age from late twenties to well past retirement. Some are fit and muscular, others soft with pronounced bellies. Brown skin, pale skin, tattooed skin, hairy and smooth. It’s a bizarre life drawing class merged with a horror film costume department.
The room is sparsely furnished, with heavy velvet curtains looking like they were stolen from a Victorian funeral parlour.
What commands the room and makes my breath catch, is the massive standing stone against the centre of the rear wall. It towers over us all, at least eight feet tall. It’s a rough, primal monolith that could have been torn directly from Stonehenge or some ancient pagan circle. Its surface is coarse and pitted, marked with centuries of weathering, and at its centre, with what I hope is fresh red paint, is an eye-shaped symbol. Not the Egyptian Eye of Horus, but a primitive slitted pupil like a cat’s or a reptile’s, staring out at the gathering with ancient, indifferent judgment.
The stone absorbs some of the room’s light. It doesn’t belong in a residential home in Brighton. It belongs on a windswept hill under a full moon, surrounded by druids. I can’t stop staring at it, even as Carlo makes introductions.
“Everybody... this is Mark.” He makes me sound like the sacrificial lamb. I feel a tightening in my testicles.
A chorus of greetings rises from the masked figures—”Hi,” “Welcome,”—interspersed with a few knowing chuckles and a dry “Best of luck” from behind an ancient Egyptian jackal mask. The sound of voices muffled by the masks adds another layer of unreality to the scene.
A sense of anticipation, tinged with amusement fills the air. I’m the only clothed person in a room full of naked, masked strangers but also feeling the most vulnerable, I suspect. My pen mic feels absurdly inadequate for all this.
The unmasked man approaches me, hand outstretched. He’s obese. Multiple chins cascade onto his chest. His body shouts decades of indulgence. His face has the ruddy glow of someone who enjoys rich food, drink, and whatever other pleasures life has to offer, without a trace of shame or restraint.
“Mark... welcome to the group,” he says, his voice smooth and with a hint of Received Pronunciation campness. This has to be the leader Eli had mentioned, though he hadn’t named him.
He stands with his legs shoulder-width apart, spine straight, arms relaxed at his sides. While the others hunch slightly or cross their arms over their chests, he offers no coverage. He holds my gaze without blinking, oblivious to, or perhaps proud of, his exposed state. He’s imposing, like an ancient fertility statue come to life.
I try not to glance down as I shake his hand.
“Well... thanks for inviting me,” I reply. “I’m... full of anticipation.”
“And so you should be, my dear boy,” he beams, his face creasing into a smile that conveys both amusement and appetite. “Be warned, exploration is addictive.”
“I... well... I will be careful,” I say, out of my depth already. I’m like a man who’s shown up for swimming lessons only to find himself at the edge of the Mariana Trench.
“You’ve met Carlo,” the unmasked man continues, gesturing around the room with elegant hands that are delicate compared to his substantial body. “This is Mike…”—bull mask, former gym-goer by the looks. “Ash…”—slender, his face a digital display. “Kamal…”—elaborate African mask. “Sean and Robert…”—identical demon masks, mismatched bodies. “Aaron…”—clown mask. “Liam…”—gargoyle, largest in the room. “Seb…”—cyberpunk mask. The effect is overwhelming, like a dream sequence where everyone is both anonymous and hyper-specific.
“And I’m the illustrious leader of our group, Maximillion Marshall.” He gives a slight bow, folding with surprising flexibility. “You can call me Max. Tell me Mark, why are you interested in being here?”
I focus on his face rather than his nudity. The contrast between his exposed, indulgent physicality and the hidden faces of everyone else in the room creates a bizarre power dynamic. I feel myself circling him, caught between embarrassment and a sick fascination with what he’ll do next. “Well... this is a... err, as you say, you perform magic... is that right?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
My eyes drift down before I snap them back up to face level, feeling heat creep into my cheeks.
“To keep it simple,” Max replies with a smirk on his lips, he noticed my momentary lapse, “I’m going to answer in the affirmative.”
A ripple of laughter and confirming murmurs goes through the group. They must enjoy the mystique, like kids with a secret clubhouse password.
“Ignore them,” Max waves a hand. “Magic is part of the natural universe... just hiding somewhere between common knowledge and intuition.”
“You mean it’s science that we don’t yet—”
“Please... don’t... quote... Arthur C Clarke,” Max interrupts.
“Why not? Don’t you agree?”
“Not at all. He was right,” Max concedes. “I knew him... I just found him to be an arrogant prick.”
Well, that’s unexpected.
“Ummm. Well... I’d like to experience real magic. That’s kind of understandable... I would’ve thought. If it exists.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” Max assures me. “Although many are afraid of stepping outside society’s rules. How… brave are you?”
More laughter from the assembled men, like I’m a specimen under glass.
“Errr. Not sure,” I admit. “I... have um... a curiosity for the unknown.”
“Ahh... killed the cat, as they say,” Max nods. “Ok. That’s fine. As a new member... and hopefully... a regular member... we’ll perform a simple ritual and see how you do.”
“What results do you expect?” I ask. The podcast host in me is already drafting how I’ll describe this to my listeners.
“Oh, Mark... to step into the unknown it’s best to clear your mind of questions.” Max leans in. “And, to be honest, if you know the expected outcome, it won’t arrive.”
“Right... I see,” It sounds like the kind of thing fortune tellers say right before they tell you your dead grandma is proud of you.
“You will,” Max promises. “Now. We must crack on. Some of these chaps have trains to catch.”
Murmurs of agreement come from the group. Time, it would seem, is a factor, even in magic rituals. The supernatural operating on British Rail timetables seems oddly mundane.
“Ok, Aaron,” Max addresses a younger, well-built man in a clown mask. “We’ll be doing the Summoning of Baal. You take point today.”
“Fab!” Aaron’s shoulders pull back.
“Mark...” Max turns back to me, noticing my hesitation. “...we do this naked... come on, clothes off.”
“Umm. I... um... ooookay,” A blush creeps up my neck. This wasn’t mentioned in the brochure. Or by Eli.
I undress, feeling awkward, aware of the amused glances. My fingers fumble with buttons. Each item of clothing taken off is a layer of dignity removed.
“Carlo,” Max instructs, “you’re with me and Mark. Be a love and fetch the mistletoe.”
“Will do,” Carlo replies, heading towards a side table.
“Everyone else... you know the drill... energy ring.”
The goup murmur amid the shuffling of bare feet on the wooden floorboards as they form a circle. I try to keep my eyes above waist level, a feat made challenging by my intense awareness of my nakedness.
“Mark,” Max guides my shoulders, positioning me within the smaller, inner space. Aaron kneels in the centre. “Aaron is going to be in the middle of two rings. The focus ring, that’s you, Carlo and myself, will stand around Aaron at three points of a circle... so, you, just here,” he nudges me to the side. “I’ll be here... and Carlo... just there.”
Carlo returns, holding a leafy branch.
“That’s it. Ah, thank you, Carlo.” Max takes the branch. “Mark, my dear boy, take this mistletoe branch.”
He presses it into my hand. It’s cool and prickly, like nature’s own uncomfortable handshake. “I’ll explain in a second. Everyone else will form a circle outside... come on... chop chop.” He claps his hands. “Liam... please shower next time, you smell rank!”
A burst of laughter comes from a burly man in the outer circle. I catch a whiff, and agree.
“Ok,” Max calls for quiet, his theatrical manner returning. “I will be speaking the invocation. At the end of each power phrase... it will be obvious when... You,” he fixes his gaze on me, “are to strike Aaron across the back with the mistletoe.”
“What?” I blurt, startled. The mic in my discarded jacket isn’t capturing any of this. My listeners will never believe it.
“This isn’t the time for being timid,” Max chides. “Hit him... now.”
“Urrm,” I hesitate. This feels ridiculous. And degrading for Aaron. Eli has set me up for a bizarre hazing ritual.
“Hit me, come on,” Aaron urges from the centre, turning his back to me. He sounds almost eager, which only makes the whole situation more unsettling.
A tense pause fills the room. Feeling foolish, I swing the branch, brushing it against Aaron’s bare back. It makes a faint swishing sound. Aaron lets out a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh for god’s sake,” Carlo mutters beside me. “Hit him... hard.”
“That was pathetic,” Aaron complains over his shoulder. “I can take it. Come on!”
I lift the branch above my head, hesitating. Gritting my teeth, feeling the eyes of the men on me, I swing again, harder this time. The swish is louder, followed by a stinging crack as the branch connects with his skin.
“Aahhh... yesss,” Aaron hisses, a strange mix of pain and pleasure in his voice that makes my skin crawl.
“Well done,” Max approves, sounding surprised. “You ARE a fast learner, my boy.”
This is getting weirder by the second. I’ve wandered into an episode of “Tales of the Unexpected” directed by someone with specific fetishes.
“Hmmm,” I murmur, examining the mistletoe to avoid seeing the naked bodies around me.
“Everyone in position?” Max calls out. “Gather your thoughts and control your wandering minds.”
The atmosphere in the room shifts, becoming more focused. The room settles into silence. I hear the distinct sound of a match being struck, then a single, clear bell tone rings out.
“Light of the Moon hear me well,” Max’s voice takes on a resonant, rhythmic quality. “freeze them out and make them gone / the spell is cast, the magic will last / When I speak your name you’ll feel my fire / The spell has been cast.”
“Sic Fiat Semper,” the outer circle chants in unison.
A pause. Max stares at me, eyebrows raised. “Mark... that was your cue.”
Right, the hitting thing. I hesitate again. This is not magic. With a sigh, I swing the branch again, hitting Aaron’s back.
“Sssss!” Aaron ekes the air through pursed lips.
Max continues the invocation, his voice rising. “I call upon Baal, call upon all karmic forces / I call upon wide ruling powers / Make smooth the way that may / come to me in abundance three times three / May we be enriched in the best of ways harming none on its way.”
“Sic Fiat Semper,” the group chants again.
Max nods at me. Steeling myself, I strike Aaron again.
“UhhhhSsSSS!” Aaron groans, louder this time. A collective groan rises, an ecstatic, primal sound, a realisation dawns. Oh god. That’s not spiritual ecstasy they’re experiencing.
Max’s voice grows stronger, more commanding. “This I accept, so mote it be, bring me fortune three times three / Frigga and Freya, Freen and Frick, the eye of Baal has been turned to thee / Salt that protects, protect my home and all within it.”
“Sic Fiat Semper!” The chant is louder now, the groaning more intense, like a tide rising, threatening to drown out any remaining rationality.
The ritual dictates I strike again. The branch swishes through the air, cracking against Aaron’s skin. The groans swell, becoming almost overwhelming. I try to focus on the branch, on Aaron’s back, on anything but what I now know is happening.
“Shhhhh,” Aaron hisses.
Max lights a candle on the side table. “As I light this candle, the veil of darkness that is ever present in my mind is lifting.” His voice fills the room. “The darkness ceases to exist as the light of this flame glows. Long has the darkness filled my mind. Its protest is small but holds great strength. For only Baal can push this power.”
“Sic Fiat Semper!” The chant is fervent now, the ecstatic groans continuing unabated.
A long pause follows. The groaning subsides, leaving an expectant silence. Max is staring at me again. I’m supposed to hit Aaron but I can’t. Scepticism, revulsion, and sheer absurdity wash over me. This isn’t magic. I’ve been tricked.
“Mark...” Max demands, his voice sharp. “Mark!”
“Oh for god’s sake...” The words burst out of me, loud in the tense silence. “This isn’t a magic circle... it’s a jerk circle!”
A single, loud groan erupts from someone in the outer ring.
“I rest my case,” I mutter, letting the branch fall to my side. “Pfff.”
Max’s expression shutters. He glances at Aaron, at Carlo, then back at me. “Ah… I see.” The ritual’s spell, such as it was, breaks completely. He clears his throat. “Well,” a slight pause as he considers, “Ok, gentlemen. We’re finished for the evening.”
Moans of disappointment ripple through the room.
“Everybody,” Max snaps, his tone strict and devoid of its earlier theatricality. “Collect your clothes and head home.” He glances at me. “No... not you, Mark.”
He addresses the group again. “I’ll be in touch soon with the date of our next meeting. Thank you gentlemen. Remember, the search for suitable club members is fraught with disappointment.”
He turns towards Aaron, who is rubbing his back. “Aaron, before you leave, clean the floor, there’s a love.”
“Of course. Thank you,” Aaron replies.
The room dissolves into the sounds of shuffling feet and mumbled conversations as the men retrieve their clothes. Phrases float across the room: “What a waste.” “What a fucking wimp.” “Anyone for the pub?” “Def.” “Count me in.”
A door opens and closes, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut. Soon, only muffled mumbling and fading footsteps can be heard from outside. I stand, still naked, exposed and foolish, alone in the large room with Max and Aaron, now wiping the floor with what I hope is disinfectant.
Why am I just standing here? I should leave. This was a scam.
My stomach drops. It’s me. I can’t help myself.
I can’t leave. Not yet. I’m still waiting for Max’s next move. Still hoping for a revelation, even if the only secret here is how much more embarrassment I can endure.