Pentacle - A Self Collection Read online

  PENTACLE: A SELF COLLECTION

  By Tom Piccirilli

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2011 / Tom Piccirilli

  Copy-edited by: Kurt Criscione, Darren Pulsford and David Dodd

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

  Background Images provided by:

  http://verehin.deviantart.com/

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS BOOKS BY TOM PICCIRILLI

  NOVELS:

  A Lower Deep: A Self Novel

  Nightjack

  Short Ride to Nowhere

  Sorrow's Crown – A Felicity Grove Mystery

  The Dead Past – A Felicity Grove Mystery

  The Night Class

  NOVELLAS:

  All You Despise

  Cast in Dark Waters (with Ed Gorman)

  Frayed

  Fuckin' Lie Down Already

  Loss

  The Fever Kill

  The Last Deep Breath

  The Nobody

  You'd Better Watch Out

  COLLECTIONS:

  Futile Efforts

  Tales From the Crossroad, Vol 1

  UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

  Nightjack – Narrated by Chet Williamson

  Buy Direct From Crossroad Press & Save

  Try any title from CROSSROAD PRESS – use the Coupon Code FIRSTBOOK for a one-time 20% savings! We have a wide variety of eBook and Audiobook titles available.

  Find us at: http://store.crossroadpress.com

  CONTENTS

  AN EXORCISM OF "SELF"

  NEVERDEAD

  BURY ST. EDMONDS

  MALEFICIA

  PAINDANCE

  EYE-BITING AND OTHER DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION

  LIKE A HELL-BROTH

  SORROW LAUGHED

  GO BACK TO THE CHURCH

  AN EXORCISM OF "SELF"

  It's troublesome to think about just how quickly the sands of time spill around us. Sitting here, trying to recollect just how it all started, I find it nearly impossible to admit that four and a half years have passed since publishing the first "Self" tale in Terminal Fright #6. This marked the beginning of a period when many TF readers measured the passing of days by the appearance Tom Piccirilli's demon-busting duo in the now dormant, but very restless magazine. Every three months, from issue #6 through issue #10, Tom's mysterious Necromancer, along with his even more mysterious "Self" familiar, appeared as reliably as the moon ascends through darkened skies.

  Since those early days, I've had many occasions to ponder just why it is that I, and so many others, like these stories so much. After all, we don't even know the name of this Necromancer who roams the world battling demons and gods, all the while pining for his dead love, Danielle, with only Self as a companion. It takes a lot of balls, I think, to speak nothing of confidence in one's writing, to leave out such an important fact. Tom scorns one of the golden rules of character development and teases the readers with only the occasional hint into his protagonist's past. A writer can more easily get away with such liberties in a single short story. But to pull it off so effectively with a series character is nearly unheard of in the print medium. Disclaimer number one: I claim no expertise in all areas of genre fiction. Surely there are those who can add to this, but I would guess Bill Pronzini's "Nameless Detective" heads an extremely short list of exceptions.

  Not only does Tom forego the necessity of providing the Necromancer a name, but descriptions, when they exist at all, are purposely vague at best. We are never shown the protagonist or his excitable little familiar. Tom's never felt the need to put them inexplicably before a mirror so they might describe themselves to us. As a result, it's really left to us to picture these characters in our own minds, making it highly unlikely that we will ever see two artists' visions of the Necromancer and Self which appear similar. This works surprisingly well, though perhaps it shouldn't be surprising at all. The images created in our mind's eye are often more vivid and less disappointing than seeing the characters as viewed through another's.

  Well, that Tom Piccirilli is an exceptional writer is without question or debate. Even if you haven't read him before, which is also highly unlikely, you couldn't have made it to this point in the book without already arriving at the same conclusion.

  So what is it? Why do these stories you are about to read succeed when so many other writers have fallen flat on their perplexed faces?

  Part of the answer may be the blistering pace, which is a trait distinguishable in all of Tom's fiction. It's quite impossible to find any large stretch of pages—or even paragraphs—where some sort of action isn't taking place. These stories are fraught with confrontation and resolution, tension and release, mystery and answer. These stories keep you on the edge of your seat, and leave you with an insatiable need to continue reading.

  Oddly, a good analogy for "Name" versus pace may be found in the sport of boxing. Heavyweight fights are notoriously slow, at times even boring to watch. Announcers and promoters counter this by creating "Names"; providing listeners with much of the boxer's life outside the ring. Incidents involving heavyweights often make front page news. Knowing the heavyweight boxers makes it easier to watch these fights. Patiently we wait for that one punch which will suddenly end it. Whereas in a featherweight fight, the action is often so fast and furious that the names become unimportant to spectators. We watch because the frenzied pace makes it fun to do so. Not necessarily because we feel we know them, or are even pulling for one boxer in particular. The action draws and holds our attention, creates the fascination. Tom's "Self" series is akin to a featherweight fight. The action and tension continually punch us in the gut and jab us in the head, until we finally succumb not to a single, well-placed blow, but a daunting succession of smaller ones which leave us beaten, sometimes demoralized and mentally inflamed, but ready for another round just the same.

  Action can't explain the entire riddle, however. Part of the answer can also be found in the subject matter Tom chooses to write about. Personally, I have always been fascinated by the idea of old gods and mythology, demons and witchcraft, the different perceptions of Hell and redemption. Tom catalogs these things for us in his work and presents us with them in such fascinating ways. He arrogantly borrows from a multitude of religious beliefs and meshes them with different majik systems—old and new—to do battle with demons from every Hell known to man. Tom's "Self" tales are often apocalyptic, or nearly so; hinting at the end-game all the while dancing cautiously with evil and death. Bringing us ever so slowly, through these torrid tales, to . . . something . . . which I suspect, and hope, even he doesn't know at this time.

  Closely related to the subject matter, these stories succeed because of the authenticity with which they are written. I've had readers actually write to ask if Tom was a practitioner. And I've had readers disbelieve me when I told them the answer was "no." His secret is really no secret at all. Tom's authenticity stems from the fact he is a laborious researcher. He records information on the occult and uses this data liberally when it fits into the scheme of a story. It's a very difficult thing, to say the least, to write about ideas which are at once met with such skepticism and giggles, and to come across so realistic. Again, confidence in his writing plays no small role
in this air of authenticity.

  Personally, I find it fascinating to think that the demons Tom's nameless Necromancer faces down might exist. Not from the point of view of some toady who thinks they're a devil-worshiper because they invert crosses and throw stones through church windows, or even from a devil-worshiper's POV at all—though there are those who believe writing or reading about such things is evidence to the contrary. Which doesn't seem to pass muster. Disclaimer number 2: I am also not an authority on religious doctrine. But I know of no religion which professes of a Heaven which doesn't also profess of a Hell, even if that Hell happens to be in the form of a lower-attained Heaven. So it seems to me that one can't really discuss one with any seriousness without considering the other. And let's face it, unless you're of the type who sees good everywhere, who thinks that the death of an innocent child or the rise of a new pestilence is somehow part of God's plan for the betterment of man, evidence of evil, if you believe in such things at all, is much easier to find than evidence of a higher-order goodness. Seems to me the existence of demons would be a very good thing. Because it would affirm that the opposite does indeed exist, and that our time on earth really isn't the end-game. Fascinating stuff to think about.

  Much of the success can also be attributed to the duality and interaction between the Necromancer and his demon familiar. We learn a great deal about the Necromancer simply through the deeds and banter of Self. Self at times appears to be the figurative "little devil" which stands on one shoulder giving bad advice, while at other times playing the "little angel" which stands on the other shoulder offering good advice; often, serving as both, and leaving the reader to guess which is the facade. Self serves not only as a conduit to seemingly limitless demonic power, but as a friend and confidant, a sounding board and a means of self-condemnation. Not so ironically, Self also serves as the Necromancer's own consciousness and grip on sanity. They are so closely linked that origination of thoughts is often indeterminable.

  Referring to his familiar as Self is by no means a coincidence. Emotionally they are the same, though neither may be willing to admit it. The Necromancer is dry and dull and very much at peace in his own company, while Self is the extrovert; witty and humorous, outgoing with a penchant for imitating Hollywood icons. The Necromancer is stubbornly loyal to Danielle, though she's been dead for years. He easily turns away the sexual favors of beautiful women, which proves to be a bottomless well of agitation for Self, who eagerly searches for female gratification any way he can get it. Self is a nympho by nature, and frustrates quickly by his Master's restraint. And despite commanding the powers known to only a few over the ages, the Necromancer shows great restraint in the use of this power as well. Always choosing minimal force though Self could easily tap into the forces of Hell.

  To one another, they are both loving and antagonistic. Friends and enemies. We don't know the hows or the whys of their meeting, but they seem to complement each other very well. Yet the underlying tone is one of distrust. We get the feeling that Self is reliable for reasons known only to him. That true loyalty may or may not be proven when it comes down to the final battle.

  But perhaps the most important reason Tom Piccirilli's "Self" stories succeed despite the lack of a character name and physical descriptions is because through it all—the demonic confrontations and jockeying, the grit and grime, the flaming hexes and lakes of blood—the humanness of the Necromancer always shines through. He very well may be the most powerful raiser of the dead of his or any time, but he is also a person we can feel for, in spite of the extraordinary events which always surround him. He comes across as someone searching for answers to the same mysteries we all seek. Yet, unlike some of us, he doesn't waste time by feeling sorry for himself, or agonizing over circumstances beyond his control. He faces them head-on like a man who's all too aware of his flaws and weaknesses. Things most of us hide away, visible to all but ourselves. The Necromancer knows intimately the walls he's built, and the chains which bind him.

  The only questions that remain are: What will we see when he's finally ready to let his guard down and his full fury loose? And what role will Self play? Personally, I hope these are mysteries Tom takes to the grave with him, but not for at least another hundred years. He has too many stories to exorcise.

  — Ken Abner

  13 Feb 1999

  NEVERDEAD

  Dead leaves and moonlight drifted over the old women as they congregated in back of the jail and threw roses at my cell. Some of the flowers dropped between the bars of the window and littered the floor. Yesterday I'd plucked one up, wondering what the women in black shawls were saying and what the decaying roses signified, when Sheriff Cross came in and jabbed his billy club into my ribs. I left the roses where they fell and stared out at the court yard.

  Children were playing in the woods behind the three-cell jail. Oil lamps haphazardly illuminated the dirt road and the field, lengthening their shadows across the waving swamp weeds. Some of the other townsfolk were standing there, too, talking quietly, laughing and smoking, sitting on tree stumps and drinking beers while the old men occasionally broke out in snatches of unintelligible song.

  The truck driver who'd given me a ride was in the cell across the way to the left, bellowing obscenities and taunting them. His voice was low and gruff when it wasn't cracking with rage and fright. "Come on, you inbred bastards," he shouted, "get yer ropes and quit it with all that noise! Besides, this place is starting to smell worse than my wife's air freshener!" He lowered his voice and looked at me. "Millie's got this damn phobia about germs. Never marry a woman who's afraid of germs. Seems that germs is everything a man likes."

  Listening to him made me want to laugh, even in the midst of the confusion and fear. His name was Gus Ronald Willis. He stood 6'3” with giant shoulders and a wide overhang of a belly; he was black and frightened they were going to lynch him even though some of the folk were black, too. We were pulled over for driving ten miles over the speed limit on an empty highway at two in the morning; why they'd string me and another hitchhiker up alongside him was also a mystery.

  The other hitchhiker was a teenager named Pidge who had the nervous shallow eyes and gaunt features of someone who's known constant abuse all his life. He'd told us he came from around these parts, but hadn't said a word since the sheriff pulled us over and tossed us in jail two days ago. Pidge looked dead already, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling, roses landing beside him on the bunk.

  Gus came over to the bars between us and said, "You got this figured out yet, kid?"

  "No," I said.

  He shook his head. "Some of these towns, they're so secluded that everybody in 'em goes crazy, and they raise their kids that same way. In a couple generations, they're not Ma and Pa Walton anymore, they're downright maniacs. Cut up a stranger just for living over the county line."

  I knew what he meant, I'd run into that kind of town before. Gus had picked me up over in Walkerwood, down a spectral piece of asphalt. I'd seen him coming out of the mist in the powerful beast of his truck, the headlights blazing and engine roaring like the demon ghost of Casey Jones driving his train across the dark hills.

  "One time," he continued, "I was coming off I-80 looking for a place to eat when I spotted this diner and pulled in. Course, a man can't get lucky enough just to eat and get back to work. No, man's gotta pull in and spot the most beautiful girl he's ever laid eyes on, even if he's seen 'em in all sizes, shapes, and colors, I kid you not. We got to talking, just about the weather, that's all these folks can talk about anyway, and as fine as she was—or maybe because she was as fine as she was—I wasn't trying to pick her up, didn't really want to do anything more than look at her."

  More dead roses flew through the bars.

  "So, I finish my lunch and kick back to smoke a butt and the next thing I know I feel this tickle in my ear. I scratch like it's a gnat but the tickle don't go away. The lady's still smiling and talking at me and I'm trying to stay focused on what she's say
ing, but then I realize her old man's behind me and got a pitchfork aimed to ram through my head. Never seen how he got into the diner. Easy as pie I stood up and threw my chair out the front window, leaped through and rushed my truck. Don't know what this world is coming to."

  Pidge muttered something for the first time in two days.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Coccyx," he said. The word fell from his mouth like a cutting shard of ice dredged from his soul. He turned over on his bunk and curled into fetal position, tucking his knees even more tightly against his chest. He breathed again, "It's coming to Coccyx."

  We heard screams.

  I rushed the bars but couldn't see anything out of my window. Gus said, "They got somebody else." He craned his neck, sighting along the back wall of the jail out into the edge of the field. "My good Jesus, I think they got a pair of ladies. Women in high heels, you know, like New Jersey housewives. Where in the hell did they come from?"

  "More fodder," Pidge said.

  My second self rose at that, his mouth watering, crawling up my shoulder to nuzzle my neck. "Tell us what's going on," I said.

  Pidge didn't move except to shiver. "It's too late."

  The singing grew louder, now taking on a somewhat different tone, one that almost seemed to implore. My familiar crooned too, in my ear, asking me to remember incantations I'd long forgotten.

  "Who are they calling up, Pidge?"

  "Calling?" Gus said. "What?"

  The pause lengthened and another minute passed. Pidge stirred and slowly unfolded himself, gazing at my shoulder as if he could see Self clinging there. He frowned. "What do you know of it?"

  "A little. Now who are they calling upon?"