72 Spirits

By

Eric Allen Yankee

I.

        Purge me with hyssop, oh Lord, and I shall be clean.  Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.  (Psalm 51:7)

        I first saw Dr. Anna Yankovich on television the morning of my daughter Allison’s death.  She was promoting her book Master Your Life By Controlling Your Demons.  I thought that it was strange she chose the word “demons” for her title, but the television audience loved it.  Now I’m sitting in Dr. Yankovich’s tiny office.  She’s right beside me on a couch she claims is made of Goat leather. That thought alone makes me squirm a bit, but now this striking blonde of eastern European descent with ice blue eyes has just told me we’re going to summon a demon together.  This is not what I expected from therapy.

        She flips the hair from her eyes.  I think she’s flirting with me, but I’ve never been good at telling.  Her eyes rest on my protruding middle-aged stomach.  She grins.  Divorce has been unkind to me.  I’ve eaten at the Seven Eleven every day for the last two years. My glasses are practically falling off my head and everything around me seems a bit fuzzy and mystical.  

        “Mr. Granfield, have you heard of ceremonial magic?” She says the word magic very seriously.  I consider that she must be joking.  But then I look around her office.  It’s packed wall to wall with books on mysticism and the Occult.  Many of the books sound very demonic: The Grimoire of Pope Honorius, The Big Book of Satanic Sacrifice, Angels and Demons for the new Millenium.  She’s definitely not joking when it comes to this stuff.

        “Ceremonial magic? My Priest always told me not to mess with the Occult.”

        “There was a time when Roman Catholic Priests gathered in secret and performed ceremonies to conjure spirits,” she whispers.  “Now they’ve given it up for other forms of magic.  Praying to Saints, for instance.”

        I look down and notice my hand shaking.  She notices it too.  I remove a pill bottle from my pocket and fumble with the top.  Anna gracefully slides in closer and takes the bottle.  I watch her long fingers as she unscrews the top and hands me a pill.  I’m sweating, and I swear she’s breathing lightly on my neck.  I take the pill without water.

        “I think I’d better be going.  Your book didn’t mention anything about magic,” I say as I get up to grab my cane and the small silver urn that contains my baby’s ashes.  Yes, I carry it everywhere.

        “Jonathan, sit down.” This does not sound like a request.  “Don’t you want to see your daughter again?”

        I set Allison’s urn back on Anna’s crowded desk among the papers, books, and half burnt candles.

        “What do you mean?”

        “I can show you how to bring your daughter back from the dead.  She died at your hands, no?”

        My body is shaking full on panic mode.  The memories come back.  But it’s as if I’m not part of the memories.  I’m watching them from outside my body.

II.

        I see my beautiful wife Sarah strap Allison into her car seat.  I watch myself try to touch Sarah’s bony shoulder only to be brushed away.  Allison and I are going to the zoo, but Sarah doesn’t want to come.  She claims she has work to catch up on, but it’s good that Allison and I can spend daddy and daughter time together.  The dark circles under Sarah’s eyes are from being the sole supporter of the family since I lost my job selling cable television subscriptions.  I couldn’t blame her for not wanting me to touch her.

        I see myself pull out of the driveway and then a flash-forward to Lake Shore Drive.  Allison giggles in the back while I blast The Doors, “Break on through to the other side.  Break on through.  Break on through.”  And then I have some sort of seizure.  We hit a van.  The car tumbles over and all that’s left is loud screeching of metal against pavement and eardrums crying out for relief.  I regain some sense of consciousness and cover my ears.  I need to press harder on them to avoid the pain.  Allison has already gone through the window.  My baby girl is dead and it’s my fault.

III.

        I’m back in Anna’s office.  Anna helps me to sit back down.  She hands me a book bound in some sort of skin.  Is it human skin?  It’s definitely human.  I run my hands across the cover. The texture is very coarse and has an air of deadness to it.

        “What is this book?”

        “The Lesser Key of Solomon.  The Goetia,” Anna replies calmly as if this should be common knowledge.  “There are 72 spirits in this book that represent all of the aspects of human personality.  There are spirits for fighting, finding lost objects, and fucking, among other things.  Some see them as real entities from hell.  I take a more psychological approach to them, but I don’t dispute their power.  If you can gain control of them then you can gain control of your mind.  You will have real power in the world.”

        “How does this translate to bringing Allison back?”

        “When you have mastered yourself you will have mastered your universe.  You can have anything you want,” she says.

        “What will you get from it?” I inquire.

        “I don’t need anything, Jonathan.  I’m only here to serve as a guide for those with less strength than myself.  In return, all I ask is that you allow me to call upon you at any time.  You will lend your new power to any task I require, and you will not ask questions.  There are others working for me now who are ensuring my continued success.”

        I grasp Allison’s urn and close my eyes.  “I’ll be able to have her back?”

        “Yes.”