Low Magick by Lon DuQuette (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) 📗

area was surely a serious impediment to any kind of energy flow—a severe case of chi constipation if I ever saw one!

The whole scene would have been comical had it not been so overpoweringly claustrophobic and suffocating. The area was accessible by only one door that opened onto the hallway. Just standing there made me gasp for air and want to run away, but it was here that Sister Martha lingered as she related details of the specific tragedies and misfortunes that had recently befallen the poor souls who labored for their daily bread in that warped little trapezoidal hell.

She had, in fact, prepared a one-sheet dossier (complete with name, age, picture, job title, and the sad details of each victim’s particular affliction, accident, or tragedy), which she clipped to the hanging in-box attached outside each victim’s door or cubical entrance. For example:

Jane Doe—34—accountant—(picture)

Fractured arm while recovering from breast surgery. Office formerly occupied by Janet Doe who perished with baby in car fire.

Marc and I were impressed.

Before she left us to our work, we sat down for a few minutes in her office to chat. She told us that she had been busy all afternoon arranging the school’s memorial service for Sister Catherine. She was visibly upset and very tired. She told us we would have access to the entire building up until 6:00 a.m. when people would start arriving for the next school day. There would be only one other person in the building during the night, Larry the IT man, who did his computer duties at night.

She rang Larry in his office and asked him to please come to her office. When he appeared, Sister Martha introduced him to Marc and me and told him we would be in the building for several hours during the night doing “some work” for her, adding that we had her permission to go anywhere in the building and that he was not to disturb us.

Larry was a gaunt man, perhaps forty years old, in jeans and a dark gray T-shirt. He seemed a bit high-strung, and I got the clear impression that he viewed us with suspicion.

“What kind of work?” Larry asked nervously.

“Nothing at all to do with your computers, Larry. They won’t be disturbing you,” Sister Martha quickly interjected before either Marc or I could respond.

Larry did not appear satisfied with Sister Martha’s answer. He looked at Marc and me as if he hoped we would offer more information. When none was forthcoming he stammered, “Well, I’ll be backing up the system all night so if they want to look at …”

“They’ll not be working with the computers, Larry,” said Sister Martha with a tinge of irritation in her voice.

I quickly decided I didn’t like Larry. When he disappeared, Sister Martha told us how to lock the building and gave us the security code to open the gate. She then thanked us again for coming, presented us with a check (a very generous figure, we thought, for such an intangible service), and said she’d leave us to our work. She opened her handbag and was fishing for her car keys when her cell phone rang. She plucked it from her purse, flipped it open, and answered.

“Yes dear. How are you doing?” She obviously knew the caller.

Then after a long moment of silence, Sister Martha sat down and sighed, “Oh dear, when? Is anyone with you?” She listened silently for a couple of minutes more before saying, “We are all praying for you, dear. Try to get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She flipped her phone shut and glared blankly at Marc and me.

“That was Sister Catherine’s mother. Her husband, Catherine’s father, was devastated by her death. He collapsed and died about half an hour ago.”

For an uncomfortably long moment it seemed that Sister Martha was going to say something more. She didn’t. She picked up her purse and keys.

“I’ll let you get started now.”

Part V

The Exorcism

What an excellent day for an exorcism!

Regan, from The Exorcist

Marc and I were in a pretty somber mood after Sister Martha left. Marc said he would like to systematically go through the building as he had done previously and when he was finished would wait for me in the faculty lounge. I told him I would more or less follow in his wake. We conferred for a few minutes in the hallway as we confirmed our respective routes through the school.

As the faculty lounge would be our base camp and final meeting place, we agreed we would both start there. I waited in the hallway while Marc did his thing. When he was done, he went on his way and I reentered the lounge and prepared myself for the magical marathon to come.

I sat down in the most comfortable chair in the room and put my briefcase on my lap. I closed my eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and repeated my Ganesha banishing/invocation mantra and visualization. Then I reluctantly got up out of my comfy chair, loosened my tie, unbuttoned the collar of my shirt, and fished out the medallion bearing the image of the Pentagram and the sigil of Slug-Shlug. I arranged it so it neatly hung over my tie. I then rebuttoned my collar and slid the knot of my tie trimly against my throat. For some reason, I felt it was vitally important for me to appear as “professional” as possible. I opened my briefcase and again anointed my head with a tiny dab of Oil of Abramelin, popped on my yarmulke, clipped my juror’s badge hexagram to my shirt pocket, and put on my bishop’s stole.

For the first time, I noticed the life-sized and obscenely gruesome crucifix hanging on the wall near the bulletin board. How could I have missed that? I moved closer to have a better look. Surprisingly, my dark cynicisms regarding the church and Christianity in general disappeared, and for a moment I saw the Great G in that ghastly symbol. I looked into