Silas didn’t like to be cramped. Small rooms. Locked doors. Closed windows. They were suffocating. Whenever he entered a new place, he subconsciously searched for a way out. If there weren’t enough exits, or if the ceilings were too low, it was like a pressure in the back of his mind that followed him around. He’d find himself gravitating away from the walls, and he’d have a hard time thinking. It felt like his mind was stuck in the mud.
It had always been this way, even as a boy. Homework at the kitchen table was so much easier than in his bedroom. He felt lighter, more relaxed there. Ideas seemed to flow directly from the ether into his pencil without his brain getting in the way. At least, until his father came home. Yes, open spaces were much better. An open window with the birds chirping. A neighbor mowing the lawn. A basketball bouncing somewhere down the street. As a child, they gave him something to drown out the yelling. Why couldn’t his parents ever just talk?
Without anything to occupy his mind, his thoughts would inevitably turn inward. The emptiness would drag him in until he was left with nothing but haunting silence. Then even that would take on a life of its own. The quiet things became loud, muffling the rage coming from downstairs. The shouted indignation became the swish of socks on carpet. The banging on the walls became a rhythm for a made-up song. He sat at his little desk in his little room and swung his feet, staring out the window and dreading the moment the sun would sink below the horizon. That was when the whispering shadows would fill the silence.
Once his father left, whether it was out to the bar or to the woman his mother called that whore, then it really became scary. She would cry and drink herself to sleep, and he would cover her with the same ratty blanket from the night before, until her mumbling died out. Then he would square his shoulders and face the stairs, building up the courage needed to get through one more night.
Halfway up the stairs, his hands and knees would start shaking. He would sprint up the last few steps, certain something was right behind him reaching for his ankle or the back of his shirt. When the door finally closed behind him, he would make sure it was locked, then crawl under the covers.
That’s when the voices would start.
The sounds were unrecognizable at first, like the wind sighing through the trees, or the caress of paper on dry skin. But one night, the whispers became a word. One, singular word. It sounded familiar. He dropped the covers and tried to hear more. He could almost make it out. On this night, his mother hadn’t passed out yet, and her crying was making it hard to hear. Why couldn’t she just fall asleep? He strained, tilting his head toward the noise, his little face scrunched with effort.
It was his name coming from the other side of the door. Thankfully, he’d made sure it was locked.
Silas.
He heard it again and looked to the mass of deep black in the open closet. It was louder that time, and he lifted the covers so only his eyes were peaking over the edge. There was a scratch at the window. Silas snapped his head that way, expecting to see the silhouette of a monster backlit by lightning. But it was just a branch. The wind was blowing hard that night.
Silas.
The voice whispered again, this time from under the bed. He jumped and scrambled to put his back to the wall, afraid of looking down over the edge. His name came again and again until one voice overlapped with the next and it was all he could hear. He put his hands on his ears, but that didn’t work either. It was like it was coming from inside his own head. He lay awake for hours, trembling, with nowhere to run, trapped in that stuffy, suffocating room, listening to his name whispered over and over.
Silas. Silas. Silas.
Why wouldn’t it say anything else? What did it want? He would do anything, anything, to get it to stop, to let him sleep for just one night, just one hour, just one…
“Silas,” a voice said, shattering the memory like broken glass.
He shook his head to clear it. Yes, open spaces were better. That was why he picked this place. There was plenty of room to work.
“Silas,” the robed monk repeated. He was a new recruit, since she killed the others that day. He still hadn’t forgiven her for that.
But Silas couldn’t let it distract him. Not now. The work required his attention. “Yes?” he answered. The knife was steady in his hand.
The monk answered, “She’s here.”
She could only mean one person. Person? The mind was an odd thing. When confronted with truth that defied logic, it fell back on what it knew.
“Just a moment.”
He listened to the man’s breathing beneath him, searching for signs of distress. Rather, more distress. The man needed to be alive at the end for the ritual to work, so he was careful to keep the lines shallow. The twists and turns were difficult. The human body wasn’t meant for this, there were too many bumps and ridges to work around. And all the blood made things… sloppy.
He leaned back to admire his work. The symbol was stark on the man’s flesh. Small rivers of crimson glistened wetly, the shores of those channels red, puckered skin. The man’s chest rose and fell in uneven gasps.
“My son,” Silas repeated the familiar words, resting his palm on the man’s forehead and smearing blood into his scalp. “Do not confine yourself to the guardrails of this world. Transform your mind and soul. Trust in the Lord’s will, for it is good and true and perfect. In the light of His mercy, offer your body in worship.” He found it worked best to tweak scripture his flock was already familiar with, rather than come up with brand new words. The fools were eloquent. He had to give them that. “Do you accept the covenant?”
With the words spoken, his part of the ritual was complete. It had taken hours of painstaking labor, and now that it was nearly done, his body was beginning to protest. His hand holding the knife throbbed. His back ached. His knees were slow to respond. But he also felt energy flowing through him, pulsing in his limbs in time with the drumbeat of his heart. Something was in the air. Time seemed to slow.
This was the moment, the final chance to turn back. He needed a willing agreement. Forcing them to acquiesce through pain or threat yielded nothing, as Silas had discovered through trial and error. Sometimes, right at the end, when they stared over the cliff with everything hanging in the balance, they got cold feet. Whenever that happened, he couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t a bargain he would make. That was why he needed a flock, after all.
The man took a slow, shuddering breath. The time was now. Silas felt it in his bones. It had to be now. The pressure in his mind tightened like a cord stretched to its limit, ready to be snipped. His associates held the wall for support or bent over clutching their knees. The moaning, keening wails of the others lying on the mattresses reached a fever pitch.
“Yes,” the man croaked. It was so quiet Silas hardly heard it. It was the final whisper of dying breath. But it was enough.
The tension broke. The cord snapped. The kindling lit. The man beneath him fell still, and Silas’ companions stumbled from the whiplash of release. At the same time, a hand rose up from the burning portal, followed by a body swollen to grotesque proportions. Black fluid dripped from its limbs, leaving the concrete pocked with hissing craters.
He’d done it. It wasn’t his first summoning, just the first of this new order, and the one that would keep him alive. This warehouse had previously belonged to his former benefactor. That was before she came along and took it for herself. Even though he’d been working here for years, the new management, as she put it, made it feel like the first day at a new job. He let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and hoped the Dark Lady would be pleased.
Silas scolded himself even before the thought finished taking shape. The Dark Lady. Her position gnawed at him. He was the one who had learned how to bridge the crossing. Without him, the demons would be nowhere, worming their way into this realm inch by pitiful inch like they’d been doing for millennia. Who was she? Just another whore from the Abyss, like the others.
Well, maybe not exactly like the others. He’d had his fun with the temptresses and pleasure slaves. They’d been all too eager to show their appreciation for his ushering them to this plane. But none were like her. She’d faced down the knights of the Host and survived. A full-fledged succubus was rare, and always sat close to one of the thrones in the Abyss. Not the throne, of course. Just the thought of that one made him recoil. Lesser seats, but true power, nonetheless.
He’d brought countless others across the threshold. Beasts to make the ground tremble and the skies weep, monsters to introduce plague and famine, reapers of change that fooled the eye and bewitched the senses. But none like her. The Dark Lady made his skin crawl and his body hunger. Her voice alone sent fire racing through his veins.
“Silas,” that voice purred from the shadows now. Lesser men would have jumped at that, but he’d been hearing voices in the dark his whole life. He still remembered the first time she spoke his name, right after she turned everything upside down. He’d been holding his sword then and ready for a fight. How naïve he was. “You have done well.”
“Thank you, Lady,” he answered, trying to keep the sneer from his voice. “When none of my men returned from the church that night I feared your demise. It fills me with gladness to find my concern… unnecessary.”
“Do not believe everything you hear. Come,” she said, her voice dripping with the promise of something more. “Let us discuss the future.” Those simple words made him ache to obey and banish her in equal measure.
His mind raced through scenarios as his eyes flicked from one possible exit to the next, just in case. He didn’t like to be cramped.