Chapter Text
The first week of summer emerges with a steep drop in temperature and a torrential downpour of rain. For the last five days straight it's been cold and overcast, a perpetual state of dreariness. Sometimes thunder rumbles in the distance like there's a storm brewing over the ocean, but no lightning comes to break up the monotonous gray.
This morning is no exception. Illuga jogs from the bus station to his apartment building, and by the time he makes it inside, he thinks the insides of his sneakers are half-soaked. His pants are splattered with mud and damp up to the ankle.
He takes a moment to lower the hood of his jacket and catch his breath. He can see his mailbox is crammed with letters—he's been ignoring those on purpose—and a new set of flyers stapled and tacked haphazardly to the building notice board.
Help wanted: part-time waitresses. Do you know if you're going to heaven? Piano lessons. Estate sale. Join us for our worship service every week! DO YOU BELIEVE IN ALIENS? PROOF EXISTS ONLINE EXTRATERRESTRIALTRUTHS.NET
There aren't any packages for Illuga, of course, but there is an unmarked parcel sitting on the floor of the entry hall, right in the middle where anyone could trip over it. It's wrapped in nondescript brown paper and twine, no return address.
Strange. Illuga frowns at it, nudging it with the damp toe of his shoe until it’s pressed against the wall. Was it accidentally dropped by another tenant? Sitting in the middle of the entryway, it's a tripping hazard. He takes a second glance at his overstuffed mailbox. He decides to ignore it for another day and begins trudging up the narrow staircase, shrugging the wetness from his sleeves while unzipping his jacket.
The halls are lit with naked bulbs, or should be, anyway. The one on the fourth floor staircase is dead, and the crack on the ceiling there is getting worse. His feet carry him toward his apartment as he digs his keys out of his pocket. From the corner of his eyes, he sees the edge of a paper that's been shoved under his door. Illuga automatically clenches his teeth—he can't ignore this note as easily as his mailbox. He twists the key into the lock. Bends over to pick up the paper from the dingy brown carpet once the door creaks open—
Thank god. It's just a notice from the landlord: a reminder to all the tenants that cardboard boxes must be broken down and that the office will be closed for the upcoming holiday.
At least it wasn't another notice from collection agencies that have been chasing after Illuga for months now. He's tried telling them that although he and his late father shared the same last name—and Illuga was legally his kin—but there was no actual relationship. How was Illuga supposed to know about all these debts and credit accounts? He became a ward of the state when he was a child.
But the phone calls kept coming and so did the mail—hence, the neglected mailbox. He's been worried the agencies might have escalated to visiting him personally, which seemed a little farfetched—they didn't have any legal recourse, Nikita had told him—but he's on edge about the things his father left behind after he did, or more specifically, the lack thereof.
The answering machine sits on the table of his studio apartment, and he can't ignore the little LED light that warns him a message is waiting.
Illuga knows what's coming, but it doesn't fill him with any less dread as the angry message is spat out.
"It's been three weeks now. We know you're there, Illuga."
These men aren't from the collection agencies, and this is the third message they've left this month. Each one has gotten angrier and more aggressive. They want money, and they want their money now. They don't even try to ply him with empty condolences like the collectors' letters. His father apparently borrowed thousands from someone he shouldn't have and neglected to pay it back. Wasted on what? Illuga isn't sure. He never really knew his father, and now his father is very much dead.
He's thought about trying to explain it to them, telling them the same thing he told the collection agents: he hadn't seen his father for years. He makes minimum wage. But his self-preservation has stopped him from calling them back every time.
Illuga can't bear to listen to the rest of the message, but he also can't ignore the threat.
"One way or another, we'll be getting our money back."
He hears the phone slam down on the receiver. The answering machine beeps. End of messages, the mechanical voice proudly announces.
Illuga stands in the silent aftermath. He slips out of his wet sneakers, listlessly peeling his jacket from his back and letting it fall to the floor.
He shuffles to the bed nestled in the corner of the room, letting himself fall atop the mattress. The alarm clock on his bedside table says that it's a little before five in the afternoon. Not even night yet, and he's suddenly so tired.
At least his little corner of the world is still and quiet for now. No footsteps approaching from the hall. No sound coming from the phone. Illuga feels his body curl into itself.
The wind picks up, and a wave of torrential rain lashes against the window. He sniffs and dabs at his eye with the ends of his sleeves that are just a little too long.
***
Illuga wakes up to a spike of panic.
He's lying on his side, facing the back wall. It's dark in the room like the blue ink of a ballpoint pen. He's in bed, nailed in place by the sharp pain radiating from his chest. It hurts so badly that for a moment, he wonders if this is it: the moment his heart stops, and he mercifully dies before anyone can hurt and extort him. But he manages to fight for one breath, and then another until he's lightheaded from the rush of oxygen.
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone's at the door. That's what jump-started his heart rate to a rhythm that threatens to overclock.
He waits a moment. The knocking stops. He can hear his heartbeat racing in his ears like a prey animal. The knocking picks up again—three light raps, strangely soft.
It doesn't sound like an angry man.
Illuga shakes as he approaches the door's peephole.
It's a woman. Illuga recognizes the sharp line of her hair cut right under her jaw. They've passed each other in the halls a few times. She lives two units down the hall to the left, moved in maybe around a year ago.
If she was chasing after money, Illuga had a feeling she would have come knocking sooner. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he cracks open the door. The scent of a strong perfume surrounds him, something like incense and flowers, syrupy sweet and musky.
Illuga almost sneezes. "Hello?"
He can see now that the woman is wearing impossibly tall, strappy heels along with an impossibly short skirt. Her hair is dyed a deep shade of emerald, and she's wearing dark, geometric makeup around her eyes. She might be ten? Fifteen years older than him? But it's hard to tell; she looks agelessly beautiful.
When Illuga peeks out, the woman offers a warm expression, but looks mildly surprised.
"Is… there something you need?"
She looks down at Illuga. "Hello. You must live here?"
Illuga blinks back at her. "Yeah. I think we've passed by each other around the building before."
The woman nods, and her expression melts into a closed-mouthed smile. It makes Illuga think of a cat. "Indeed. My name is Nefer. Do you mind if I step in? I won't take more than a few moments, then I'll leave you be."
Maybe he's still half-asleep. Maybe he's just too tired to care. Against his better judgement, Illuga slowly nods and steps to the side, gesturing for her to step in.
"Sorry—I'll turn the lights on," he says, flipping the switch on the wall, and the single light fixture flickers to life.
Nefer quietly closes the door behind her, and that's when Illuga notices there's something nestled in the crook of her arm. A box, perhaps. "I'll cut to the chase: I heard you crying in here earlier. And I've heard you crying in here at other times when I've passed your apartment. Are you okay?"
Illuga looks at the plain brown paper of the package—the unmarked package he saw earlier. He looks back up at Nefer. "I didn't realize the sound carried so far." Even when he's crying pretty hard, he always tries to keep it quiet. "I should have known; the walls here are paper-thin. Sorry if it was disturbing you or anyone else."
A deep line appears between her manicured brows, and she shakes her head. "You don't need to apologize." She lifts her head to scan the room, and then the line between her brows turns into a deep frown. "Forgive me—you look a little young to be living by yourself."
"Ahh—the landlord said that too," Illuga sighs, scratching self-consciously at his nape. "I'm old enough to live by myself, don't worry."
Nefer narrows her eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks again.
"I've been sad, lately, if you couldn't tell," Illuga says with a weak laugh. "My dad just died. There's a few problems he's left behind, and I guess it's up to me to clean them up now."
Nefer stares at him hard, like she's trying to read what parts of the truth he's leaving out. He's severely downplaying the matter at hand, of course. But Illuga isn't going to take advantage of this lady's kind gesture with about two decades worth of a sob story. Like everything else Illuga has faced in his life—he'll find a way to get through the hardships by himself.
"I see. I am sorry to hear that," Nefer finally says. She takes the thing that was nestled in the crook of her arms, and Illuga sees that it's a package—the mysterious one he saw earlier in the entryway of the building. She holds it out toward Illuga. It's roughly the size of a textbook. "I think this might be of better use in your possession than in mine."
"Oh, that's really, really nice of you, but I can't accept—"
"Yes you can. I insist," Nefer cuts in. Her smile returns, even more cat-like and curling to her kohl-lined eyes. "Can't guarantee anything life-changing, but certainly worth a shot."
"I— Thank you," Illuga says, finally taking the parcel.
"Maybe I'll come by and check in on you sometime later?"
"Sure." Illuga is a little dumbfounded by this entire exchange, but Nefer's small kindness is not unwelcome. "Thank you," he says again.
Nefer turns toward the door. She throws a grin over her shoulder and gives a small wave with her fingers. "Don't mention it. I just want you to know that you don't have to feel alone through all of this."
Illuga doesn't realize she never mentioned what was in the package till she'd already left. He just stares at it for a few minutes, turning it around in his hands, measuring the heft and the size of it, trying to guess what it could possibly be.
He sits at his little dining table, thinking about Nefer's parting words. He never mentioned that he felt lonely, but then he scoffs to himself. It was probably the sounds of his sobs carrying through the halls that gave her the impression he was lonely—and to be fair, that assessment was not entirely wrong.
He pulls out a small pocket-knife from his jeans to cut the thick, rough twine. The paper is thick, too, and he tears it open the way he imagines someone opening presents for their birthday would do.
The wrapping falls away. It's a book. A really, really old one, too. For a brief moment, he wonders if it's worth a lot of money—if it'd be worth having a pawn shop or collector take a look at it—but he doesn't know the first thing about rare and collectable books, and he's pretty sure if this happened to be valuable to some degree, he'd be a prime target for exploiting.
Just because he's young and inexperienced doesn't mean he's not aware of that fact.
Besides, isn't it bad luck for gifts to be sold for money? He runs his hands over the worn, black leather stretched over the cover. There isn't anything on the front or the back, but there is some sort of symbol gilded on the book's spine, but it's too faded for him to make out.
Illuga opens it up and outright coughs. A puff of superfine dust comes out when he cracks open the cover. Just how old is this thing? There's nothing in the first few pages that indicate any author or publishing date—there's only a title written in a bold, calligraphic hand:
Dæmonologie: the Dark Princes
Illuga lets out a flaccid laugh. He doesn't know if this is better or worse than those pamphlets that sit on waiting room tables—the ones handed out by the local church-goers—the ones about saving your soul to get to heaven. He flips through the pages, all hand-written with very dense text. At least this looks more interesting than the trifold pamphlets saying he's doomed to go to hell if he doesn't repent.
The first section of the book is all about demons and demonology. Though Illuga knows next to nothing on the subject, it seems pretty standard as far as demonic literature goes: demons are powerful, demons are dangerous. Amusingly enough, another person seems to have written their own addendums to the text in the margins with a different pen, having made little corrections, emphasizing what they deemed important with circles and lines. Illuga wonders if this was at one point an incredibly ambitious art project.
He's careful as he turns the yellowed pages. They feel like they might crumble between his fingers at any moment.
The next section is full of bizarre jargon that makes Illuga's head spin. Ley lines and ley nexuses. Inner and outer planes. A list of names that runs for what must be at least fifty pages. Supplication versus summoning, contracts and thralls. Midway through a passage on summoning materia, a twinge at the back of his neck reminds him that he's been hunched over the table for hours. He stands up, stretching his arms over his head. He retrieves a can of beer from the fridge and moves to a much more comfortable position on his sofa.
Two cans later, Illuga looks at his clock to see that it's no longer evening—he's now in the early hours of the morning. Good thing today—well, yesterday—was his day off. And because he works night shifts, he has plenty of time to sleep in. Besides, he's just reached the last page of this section, and he thinks he might be able to finish the book in a reasonable amount of time.
The second section of the book abruptly ends, and then Illuga finds himself staring at something that leaves him wide-eyed and breathless.
It's a diagram of some sort. Intricate circles inlaid upon circles, patterns of lines, and symbols that Illuga recognizes from earlier in the book. Ostium vocare, fig. 1.
Illuga turns the page and sees another one—similar in nature, but this design has a completely different construction. The lines are sharper, more frenetic. This summoning circle was drawn by an entirely different person judging by the new slant of handwriting here. Along the bottom, a different person's messy scrawl makes their own additions to the notes.
Page after page, Illuga flips through what must be hundreds of summoning circle variations with just as many contributors. Some people elected to add polite marginalia, other contributors made bold corrections, writing and drawing over past entries. Some of them are comically simple, others are so complex, Illuga thinks that hundreds of hours might have been spent drawing it on the page. Some of the pages feature suspicious looking stains the color of rust. A few of the pages are even stuck together, but the paper's so delicate, Illuga doesn't even bother trying to pry them apart.
Illuga feels unease settle into the pit of his stomach: each of these are proof of someone's attempt to summon a demon.
Well, in theory. Illuga scans the notes skeptically, wondering what the difference between "utter failure" and "varying successes" constitute.
The last diagram drawn in the book has one very noticeable feature: it's the only one Illuga has seen so far that includes any indication of success. He sees the words "summoned and bound" underlined in the annotations. It feels as if this last diagram is the culmination of everything this book was written for. In the margins, countless people manically scribbled in. This is it. Viable. It works!
Illuga gingerly traces the shapes with his fingers. Echoes of the earlier text ring in his head. For a steep price and with a simple exchange, the human is allowed to bend reality to his whim. Diabolical favors have been known to be the catalyst of great changes—eras of war, eras of peace. The ability to spare an individual from the inevitable fate of death, and the early onset of another's end.
If he possessed the ability to claim a diabolical favor for himself, what would he ask for?
An idea begins to form in Illuga's head, and he's not sure that it's a very wise one. He thinks back to the voice message from earlier, the feeling of unbearable, oppressive anxiety that suffused him. "One way or another, we'll be getting our money back."
What would it cost for a demon to send away all the people chasing Illuga for his dead father's money?
***
After retrieving a piece of sidewalk chalk that one of the kids left at the back stoop of the building, Illuga cracks a fresh can of beer and finds himself kneeling on the apartment floor. The carpet fibers are short and dense, taking the chalk surprisingly well, better than he expected. Illuga surprises himself with how neatly he can draw the summoning circle with a few drinks and little to no art expertise. He didn't really take size or scale into account, so the summoning circle ends up taking half of the open floor.
It's mesmerizing. The process of making the lines, the symbols, the asymmetrical elements all lining to somehow balance out and fill the circle. He's copying the last diagram in the book, the one that seemed to be the most popular. Illuga's not superstitious, but when he finally closes the circle and proudly looks over his handiwork, he can swear something feels a bit different. He can't quite put a finger on what it is—something like static electricity surrounding him, the calm before a storm. The hair at the back of his neck begins to prickle. Illuga's mouth feels dry, and he feels like he's about to break a sweat.
What was the next step?
He flips back to the first half of the book. Prepare. Summon. Bind. Illuga runs a finger down the lines as he skims over them, looking for the components again. Offerings are often made to placate the demon. Common sacrifices: Items of great value. At least a pint of blood. A life. A soul.
The last two were definitely not options. Illuga doesn't own much, and the possessions he does have aren't really worth anything.
Illuga is suddenly, acutely aware of the shape of his pocketknife against his thigh.
Would it really need an entire pint? he asks himself.
Illuga grimaces, shaking what's left of the beer in his hand. This… this is silly. Stupid, really. A book on the occult wasn't going to solve his problems. Wishful thinking, invoking some higher powers that be—those aren't going to do him any favors. Turning to the occult was no better than outright lying to himself.
He stands up too quickly. For a second, the edges of his vision go fuzzy and wobble. He rinses out and crushes his beer cans, washes the chalk from his hands. He's already made enough of a mess. Better to save himself the embarrassment and an hour of trying to get blood out of the carpet.
Illuga takes himself to the green-tiled bathroom, brushing his teeth under the small, fluorescent light. Suddenly, he's quite tired. He decides that cleaning up the summoning circle is a problem for his future self.
He sets the book on his bedside table. As he falls asleep, he thinks about the message he hasn't deleted from the answering machine yet. He promises to himself that he'll file a report with authorities in the morning.