― Kassandra Cross
Ex Libris Books
I used to think evil was the result of an action, a wrong choice or deliberate sin—but now I realize it’s much more pervasive, permeating all of nature and affecting every living thing.
My outlook was shaped in part by the business I inherited from my uncle. I was now the owner of an elegant shop on Richmond Street, with a black wood exterior and the name Ex Libris Books stencilled in ornate gold letters above the doorway. On the front door in smaller letters was the notice: Thomas Mclaren, Bookseller: specializing in Judaica, Philosophy, Religion, Rare Manuscripts and Works of Magick.
I fancied myself an antiquarian and well versed in various academic disciplines—I thought it would be an easy task to retain the family ownership and make a go of the book business.
I was sadly mistaken.
My uncle collected several grimoires of Magick dating from the Middle Ages and I routinely delved into these without giving a thought to the matter. Perhaps the books should have contained explicit warnings that the contents were to be handled with care and not perused unless the reader had a deep knowledge of the black arts—whether that would have made a difference, I don’t know.
All I know is after reading these tomes, my life was profoundly changed for the worst.
I recall a gray, brooding afternoon of dripping autumn rain and spectral mists. Sophie came by the shop to check up on me.
“This shop looks like a set from Bell, Book and Candle.”
I smiled, pleased by the allusion. “It does have character, doesn’t it?”
She smirked in her elfin way, “I wouldn’t call an oppressive
atmosphere, ‘character’, Robert—doesn’t this shop give you the creeps?”
I looked around at the lovely dark bookcases filled with handsome books and the spiral staircase leading up to the second level where even more treasures were shelved.
“No, I honestly love the ambience—I may even be able to scratch out a living here.”
She shivered. “I don’t know, Robert—some of the books are beautifully bound, but they seem spooky—like this one.”
She pointed to a large volume bound in silver—The Necromicon by Al-Hazred.
“An interesting choice—it’s known as The Al-Azif.”
“Sounds ominous—what does the title mean?”
“The whispers of demons. It was written by a black wizard.”
“Lovely,” she said sarcastically, “and I suppose you’ll be attending black masses too.”
“Ah, much too conventional for my tastes, Love.”
She didn’t smile. “You know, Robert, I’m seriously worried about you—sitting here day after day, imbibing this sordid atmosphere.”
I tried to be flippant, to reassure her, “The books are lovely—like parables from the ancients—I see them as whispers through time.”
“Well, beware if you see black hooves and hear growls.”
“You really are dramatic, aren’t you?”
“Just concerned, Robert,” she patted my cheek, “just concerned.”
After Sophie left, I mused about what she said. I too found the subject matter off-putting at first and deliberately avoided the section on Magick. Gradually, however, my curiosity got the best of me and I began reading—dabbling and nibbling at the odd passage and soon I was hooked.
I began reading in earnest, motivated like Faust to explore all areas of knowledge, conventional and arcane.
I developed a taste for the mysterious, the secretive and the obscure—I began to appreciate the occult, the hidden arts. I wanted to embrace everything. I began to develop a hunger for knowledge and a burning desire to understand everything—on earth, in heaven and yes, even in hell.
I learned about others who were like myself—ascended masters who sold their soul to the devil in exchange for this precious knowledge and the power it brought. I even considered the prospect and the possibility of entering into such a covenant.
It seemed preposterous—impossible—irresistible.
In the end, I could think of nothing else.
The main impediment to selling my soul was simple—I lacked belief. I not only doubted God, I doubted the soul, the afterlife and the existence of angels, fallen or otherwise.
I was at an impasse.
There was nothing left, but to take a leap of faith—to act as if I did believe. I recalled debating a Professor of Theology—I told him, ‘show me and I’ll believe.” He laughed and said, ‘believe and I will show you.” I was dissatisfied enough to leap into the void to find out.
I followed the instructions for summoning a demon in an ancient book of the black arts. I made a chalk pentagram on the wood floor and blocked the points with black wax candles. I lit the candles, stood in the centre, and summoned the powers of hell.
Outside the shop it was pouring and the black darkness was filled with rumblings and the rustling of trees and rain. Inside, the lights were off and the wavering candles cast shadows on the walls.
I was desperate for something—for anything. My agnosticism had driven me to despair. I needed the universe to mean, to have purpose, for my life to be intelligible.
I got down, prostrated myself and stretched out full length on the floor in a posture of imprecation.
It began as a gentle soughing, not unlike my breathing—a rumor, a sigh, a susurration. I was aware of a subtle undertone—a hum, a murmuration. Something was building in intensity—it was outside of me and powerful.
The hum turned to a buzzing of flies, to a droning of bees, to a babbling of voices—purring, muttering, mumbling—I thought I’d go mad.
I ran from the shop and stood outside in the pouring rain watching the ruddy glow licking at the windows.
I realized the shop was afire.
Neighbours phoned in the alarm, but by the time the fire engines arrived, it was too late—the entire building was engulfed and burned completely to the ground.
I didn’t regret the loss of the shop. Fire is cleansing—it needed to burn.
Thankfully, the maddening humming noise was gone but leaving in its wake demonic whispers.
I’ll forever associate with the sound with whisperings of late September and its foul rustlings.
Faust was wrong—knowledge is not a panacea and some leaves are better left unturned. I know now you can’t find the light by studying the darkness.
I don’t need parables from the ancients or whispers through time—I just need Sophie’s soft voice murmuring in my ear or lying awake listening to her breathing.
Still, I'm thankful I learned my lesson…finally.
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