His Name Will Work Against Them
By Steven Comstock
In Morehouse Cemetery, Clint clears away a patch of chilled, wet grass as Mikayla had instructed. While Rebecca leans against a gravestone, he positions thick red candles in a pentagram. They recount their years as Slate High School’s outcasts. Clint suffered the labels of “emo,” “super fag” and “captain queero,” which didn’t come close to the gym shower incident, but the labels – still hurtful. Deeply hurt-full. He reminds her that her big tits and baseball star brother lessened the weight of her cross.
“Fuck you,” she says to Clint’s now cigarette-smoking face. He shrugs off her retort and wipes dirt on his black Smiths t-shirt. He isn’t even a Goth, but the label stuck because he’s not interested in school dances or serving his community, and the shaved left side of his head doesn’t help.
“I’ve been thinking about the cutting part,” he says. “I’m not into it,” but Rebecca eye-rolls him to shame, turning her attention to her blue fingernails.
Mikayla, Doug and Annie (who demanded to be called Shiva) join Clint and Rebecca. Mikayla, the witch among them, acknowledges the two. Evaluating the pentagram, she adjusts the candles to her satisfaction.
“Everyone ready?” she says. They look at each other for signs of fear or hesitation, then make a circle around the pentagram. Mikayla reminds them to stay focused on the ceremony. She says the spell will work.
“Shit, hold on.” She turns around to open a wood box she brought. She takes out a Bell jelly jar and a pouch. She pours the contents of the pouch, crushed bone, into the jar and sets it in the pentagram’s center. Mikayla displays a paring knife, slits her index finger from tip to base, and drips her blood into the jar. She hands the knife to Doug, and he copies her actions. The rest follow too.
“Join hands,” Mikayla orders. She begins, nurturing a sound from deep in her gut, like the growl of a wary cat. The sound crawls up her throat and flies out into the night. A breeze pushes the candle flames back and forth. The group chants words to gain the services of the Dark Lord. Annie notices that Clint is crying, but she leaves him alone and straightens her back.
“His name will work against them,” Mikayla chants. The others repeat.
“Our enemies will suffer his will,” she chants. The others repeat, but Clint, refusing to repeat the words, steps away. He wants to leave. He bumps into something that is not a gravestone. Iron-cold arms, rotten and earth-smeared, flow around his chest and legs. They pull him away from the pentagram. He witnesses the same fate for the rest. Impossibly long arms extend from the graves, pulling them backward, and as Mikayla rejoices with cries of “Free! We are free!” Clint feels his body snap to fit a small, dark hole on his way beneath the earth.
- - -
I am a teacher who lives in Connecticut. I pass the time in the shape of a writer seeking readers. My goal is to keep writing until I can't anymore.
By Steven Comstock
In Morehouse Cemetery, Clint clears away a patch of chilled, wet grass as Mikayla had instructed. While Rebecca leans against a gravestone, he positions thick red candles in a pentagram. They recount their years as Slate High School’s outcasts. Clint suffered the labels of “emo,” “super fag” and “captain queero,” which didn’t come close to the gym shower incident, but the labels – still hurtful. Deeply hurt-full. He reminds her that her big tits and baseball star brother lessened the weight of her cross.
“Fuck you,” she says to Clint’s now cigarette-smoking face. He shrugs off her retort and wipes dirt on his black Smiths t-shirt. He isn’t even a Goth, but the label stuck because he’s not interested in school dances or serving his community, and the shaved left side of his head doesn’t help.
“I’ve been thinking about the cutting part,” he says. “I’m not into it,” but Rebecca eye-rolls him to shame, turning her attention to her blue fingernails.
Mikayla, Doug and Annie (who demanded to be called Shiva) join Clint and Rebecca. Mikayla, the witch among them, acknowledges the two. Evaluating the pentagram, she adjusts the candles to her satisfaction.
“Everyone ready?” she says. They look at each other for signs of fear or hesitation, then make a circle around the pentagram. Mikayla reminds them to stay focused on the ceremony. She says the spell will work.
“Shit, hold on.” She turns around to open a wood box she brought. She takes out a Bell jelly jar and a pouch. She pours the contents of the pouch, crushed bone, into the jar and sets it in the pentagram’s center. Mikayla displays a paring knife, slits her index finger from tip to base, and drips her blood into the jar. She hands the knife to Doug, and he copies her actions. The rest follow too.
“Join hands,” Mikayla orders. She begins, nurturing a sound from deep in her gut, like the growl of a wary cat. The sound crawls up her throat and flies out into the night. A breeze pushes the candle flames back and forth. The group chants words to gain the services of the Dark Lord. Annie notices that Clint is crying, but she leaves him alone and straightens her back.
“His name will work against them,” Mikayla chants. The others repeat.
“Our enemies will suffer his will,” she chants. The others repeat, but Clint, refusing to repeat the words, steps away. He wants to leave. He bumps into something that is not a gravestone. Iron-cold arms, rotten and earth-smeared, flow around his chest and legs. They pull him away from the pentagram. He witnesses the same fate for the rest. Impossibly long arms extend from the graves, pulling them backward, and as Mikayla rejoices with cries of “Free! We are free!” Clint feels his body snap to fit a small, dark hole on his way beneath the earth.
- - -
I am a teacher who lives in Connecticut. I pass the time in the shape of a writer seeking readers. My goal is to keep writing until I can't anymore.
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