Hello, my little turtles, and welcome to the latest issue. You may have noticed a slight hiatus. We are working on that. That had to do with people not meeting deadlines, including me. So we're all at fault here, so you know.
As you may have noticed, it is Halloween this week, so we (I) have decided that we are to have a spookily themed issue. This will involve newsflashes on the Great Skeleton War, how to summon a demon in seven simple steps, and many other exciting articles. So, let the fun begin!
-Glinda, Witch of the North
Blast from the Past
In Blast from the Past, we are starting out with a scary themed short story that was written two years ago but is still pretty scary. We're actually getting chills just thinking about it.
The Devil in Vienna
The events herein portrayed cannot be defined as either true or false.
It is up to the reader to decide.
Vienna
Present Day
The Great Abramovich was not in the habit of having guests in his dressing room before a show, but when he did, his manager knew not to ask any questions. The rare strain of people who are acquainted with illusionists often have strange and often deadly secrets, and it’s usually better not to speak to them for as long as possible.
But on this night, and with this particular guest, Jonathan Flannery, Abramovich's manager, was having a hard time obeying this self-imposed rule.
The mysterious guest had arrived two hours before the show was due to start, and had demanded to be let in. When Flannery had asked who he was, the man, covered from head to toe in black clothing had simply said, “He will want to see me.” So Flannery had lead the man into the theater, and started up the stairs, and was surprised when the guest waved him away, claiming he didn’t need a guide. Flannery was sure he hadn’t seen this particular man before, he knew he would have remembered.
Flannery watched him limp up the stairs, then shuddered. He got the feeling that tonight was not the best night to hang around. He turned away and went back to his normal work, wondering how it was that Abramovich always made friends out of the strangest people.
~~~
The guest raised one gloved hand and knocked quietly on Abramovich's door. The door swung open, almost as if it were expecting a visitor. A nondescript man in a black tuxedo with a small black beard sat in front of a huge mirror, brushing powder on his face. He looked up arrogantly at the guest.
“Yes?” He dragged the word out, seemingly relishing in it. He returned his attention to the powder, a smirk on his face. The guest unwound the long black scarf from around his face, then hung it over the back of a chair.
“Mr. Abramovich, I am so very glad to finally make your acquaintance. My employer has told me so much about you, and it seems that we are going to be spending a very long time together.” The words came out, all consonants and vowels intact, but with a slight Hungarian accent.
“And who, may I ask, is your employer?” Abramovich glanced sharply at the man, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.
“The Devil.” This piece of information elicited a reaction from Abramovich. He dropped his powder brush, white dust now covering his shoes.
“You see, Mr. Abramovich, although you did not know it, you have stolen something from the Devil. Now he wants something from you in return. Otherwise you will have to pay a heavy price for your thievery.”
“What exactly did I steal?” A look of unbelief crossed over Abramovich’s face. Although he was certainly nervous about this unknown guest, he didn’t quite believe his unreal story. The guest smiled. It was an unnerving smile, and did nothing to calm Abramovich’s already unsteady nerves.
“Mr. Abramovich, I am quite sure you can guess. You stole your magic from the Devil, my employer.” The stunned look on the magician’s face was enough to encourage the Devil’s employee to continue. “Now,” he said, “The two of us know that not one person in your audience believes for a second that what you do up there is real. My employer, however, knows better. Instead of making a fair and honest deal with him to obtain some of his power, you stole it from him, like a dishonorable and cowardly man rather than the fair man we both know you to be. So, he has decided to give you a choice.”
The magician didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he spoke, albeit reluctantly.
“Well, sir, since you don’t give me much of a choice, let’s have it. What are my options?”
The guest’s smile grew even wider, if it were possible and revealed pointed teeth like daggers. “Oh, it’s quite simple, Mr. Abramovich. You give me your soul, or I kill everybody you love in half an hour. If you agree to give up your soul, go on stage tonight and perform as usual. If, however, you would prefer the other option, cancel your show and I will find you. Now, Mr. Abramovich, I really must be going. Murders to plan, souls to torment, you must know how it is, being a performer. You know, we really have similar jobs. We both have to jump through hoops for people that we can’t see.” The guest tapped his wristwatch.
“Ta ta, Mr. Abramovich, time’s a wastin.’ By the by, you have exactly 28 minutes to make up your mind.” The guest walked towards the door and winked. As he placed his gloved hand on the doorknob, Abramovich leaned forward, hand outstretched.
“Wait!” he shouted, a wild light in his eyes. “Please. Who are you?” The man turned, a wry smile on his lips.
“Haven’t you guessed?” he said, “I’m the Devil.” And with that the door slammed behind him, causing the stacks upon stacks of paper on Abramovich’s desk to drift to the floor. Abramovich put his head in his hands. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to steal that magic from the Devil. But what could he do about it now? He only had two options. Give up his soul, or... He didn’t want to think the alternative, didn’t want to let it take root in his head as something that could possibly happen. All of his friends and family dead, because of him. If that happened, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He would immediately seek out a way to end his life, and it probably wouldn’t be painless, either. What choice did he really have?
~~~
The Devil (but his friends call him Mr. Nick) walked briskly down the street that had led him to the theater and his recent meeting with Abramovich. He smiled to himself, making sure not to expose his serrated teeth to passersby. Now that he had spoken with Abramovich, now that he had planted the seeds of panic in his mind, he was sure that he would get what he wanted. Humans were all the same, really. Threaten things they enjoyed and they would eat out of the palm of your hand. Mr. Nick made a sharp turn into a dank alley behind an Italian restaurant. His nose wrinkled reflexively at the rotting smell of old tomatoes, bad spices, and rotten milk. Humans. They could build structures as tall as mountains but couldn’t even keep their own cities clean. But Mr. Nick had no time to ponder the nuances of human nature tonight. He had an important meeting with his sponsor.
Of course he was working for someone. These foolish humans didn’t really think that he caused all the evil in the world by himself, did they? His act of revealing himself to the foolhardy magician was only a cover up. No sane human would expect the Devil to interact with them and tell them about it. Chances were, Abramovich would chalk it up as a childish prank, go on with the show, and then Mr. Nick would have all the essence of his soul to serve his sponsor with.
Mr. Nick sat in the darkest corner of the stench filled alley. And he waited for the rush of soul’s power to tell him that he had succeeded.
~~~
Abramovich was acting very strangely these past few minutes, his stage manager noted as he watched the great illusionist rushing here and there about the theater. It wasn’t normal behavior. Usually, he would sit in his dressing room, quite calmly, sipping from decanter of an unnamed, very strong substance he called his “magic juice”. Flannery was a little afraid to find out what it really was, so, showing his excellent breeding as a stage manager, he never asked. It was that simple.
But today, of all days, it wasn’t. Abramovich appeared very upset about something, and it was taking all of Flannery’s willpower not to ask what was the matter. Tonight was a huge night for the two of them. The entire theater would be packed to the rafters, and the profits from this night alone would be enormous. Tonight had to go perfectly. Flannery lost himself in a vision of his riches after the evening’s show, completely forgetting the magician. His problem couldn’t be that big.
After all, he thought, it wasn’t as if it could possibly affect the show.
~~~
The great illusionist paced back and forth in his dressing room, his wing-tip shoes wearing a path into the already scuffed floorboards, his brow wrinkled with great concentration. He didn’t look as if he’d appreciate being canceled. A moth buzzed around the room. Abramovich swatted at it with a newspaper, and a look of intense satisfaction crossed his face when it fell to the table, dead. He turned away.
If he had not turned away, this is what he would have seen. He would have seen the moth lying dead on the table. He would have seen the moth’s legs give a last, desperate twitch. And he most definitely would have seen the body of the moth start steaming. Abramovich turned around, and he did see the last of these things that I have herein listed. The illusionist’s eyes widened. His mouth gaped. He rushed over to the table and stared in shocked puzzlement at the steaming corpse. He prodded it with his pointer finger.
The tiny body disintegrated into a pile of dust, then a sudden wind picked up and carried the remains out an open window. If it could be considered possible, Abramovich’s look of shock grew even more dramatic.
“Flannery!” he shouted, “Flannery, come here right now. I need to speak to you!” The man appeared instantly. Until tonight, the magician had appreciated his talent for punctuality. Now it unnerved him.
“Yes, sir?” The manager was calm, almost too calm. Another quality Abramovich had-until now-appreciated. In fact, everything about the man now seemed unnatural. His calmness, the fact that he instantaneously appeared whenever he was needed, the way that, even when they were in the depths of poverty, he always managed to make ends meet and look classy, the blank eyed stare he was now producing, all shook Abramovich to the core. Suddenly, Abramovich was quite certain that the manager wasn’t entirely human. He felt irrational panic rising deep inside him. He wished that Flannery would do something, instead of just standing there with that blank stare.
Abramovich cast his gaze around the room for something, anything he could use as a weapon. He lit on a long handled knife he used for opening his various fan mail. He held it out in front of him, the point aimed squarely at Flannery’s chest. Finally he elicited a reaction from the vacant eyed man.
“Wait!” he shouted, his hands held out in a warding gesture. “You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to kill me!”
The magician felt as if his heart had frozen. “Why not?” he managed to say, very coolly.
“It’s not worth it. It’s not! If you do it, he’ll get revenge on you. We’re all his creatures, you know.
And once you belong to him, there’s no getting out of his power.” The man had fallen to his knees in his frenzied state. The magician couldn’t feel anything. He was rooted where he stood.
“Who? Who’ll get revenge on me?” Abramovich demanded. The manager was almost in tears. The magician couldn’t find any pity in his heart.
“The Devil! You’re the last real person left, you know. The rest of us are here only to keep you happy. You’re his puppet. His little dancer. That’s what he calls you. He can make you do anything you want and then when he’s done with you, he’ll throw you away. That’s what he’s doing.” The man’s contorted features went completely blank.
“No. No!” The man whispered, terrified. His frightened gaze locked on Abramovich's. “He’s very angry with me. He doesn’t think I should have told you that. He’s going to-no, please. Help me. Please! PLEASE!” The man’s anguished cries rose to a piercing shriek that shattered the chandelier above the magician’s desk. Abramovich covered his head, still clutching the knife. When he looked up again, the stage manager was dead. Then he watched as Jonathan Flannery, stage manager, dissolved into a pile of dust that was quickly carried away by a gust of wind. The Great Abramovich looked at the knife in his hand. He looked at the center of his chest. With shaking hands, he plunged the knife into his chosen target, and felt himself slip into the abyss of madness.
~~~
The Devil rose gracefully from his filthy perch in the alley. “Pity,” he said.
~~~
Now of course, as a reader of this short story, you can dismiss this as complete and total fiction, because, of course, you know that you are not a part of a plot, formulated by the Devil, to trick one Edward Abramovich of Vienna, Austria. You also know that you are not in the service of the Devil, and that you are quite real. You can’t be controlled by him.
But what if the situations portrayed here were real? If you’re not one of the Devil’s creatures, then you must be that last person. And what if one of the Devil’s servants, one who has a conscience, wanted to warn you, the last living human, about your situation? How might they do it? I’ll tell you. They might put a story in a book, one of those whose only purpose seems to be filling up space on a shelf, and put the book in your path in the hopes that you might read it and realize that that is you.
Now that you know, don’t give me away. It’s very important that no one knows you’ve realized what’s really going on here. Because he will find you. And he will kill you. So after you put this book down, and it’s late at night, and you’re the only person awake, don’t knock on the walls to see if they’re real. Don’t find a fly to kill so you can watch it dissolve. Just act like you usually do. And above all, don’t let him know that you know the secret. Please don’t give me away. Please. Don’t let him know a thing.
How to Summon a Demon in Seven Simple Steps
While summoning a demon may sound rather... for lack of a better word, demonic, properly summoning a demon can prove very useful. For instance, demons are very helpful in performing various spells and incantations we here at HSG assume you use, since you are reading this article.
1. You will need to draw a summoning circle. This is the first step to summoning a demon because it opens the pathways between our world and the demon realm. It is important that you don't make a mistake with this step, as it may affect the rest of your ritual.
2. Incantations. There are many different kinds of incantations that can summon different types of visitors from the Great Beyond. It is imperative that you choose an incantation on the same level of power you wish to summon. For instance, you would not use a Greater Summoning for a Lesser Demon.
3. Bring salt. Salt repels demons very effectively, and should anything go amiss, you may need it to repel the demon you summon.
4. Wait. Summoning takes time. Demons do have things to do, you know. They don't just wait around to be summoned. (Okay, they kind of do, but that's beside the point.)
5. Get the name of your demon. If you know the demon's name, you will be able to force them to your bidding much easier than if you didn't know it.
6. Force them into a contract. This will require some giving on your part. As the saying goes, quid pro quo. You can't get something for nothing, and demons can exact a high price.
7. Have fun. It is important that you and your demon go to events together, in order to keep him/her/it entertained.
Now that you know the seven simple steps to summoning demon, we hope that your summonings and incantations are as successful as possible. And as always, we take no responsibility for any mutations, beheadings, injuries, deaths, possessions, and general mayhem.
-Glinda, Witch of the North
In Other News
In other news, the Skeleton War of 2014 rages on unabated. After several early victories, we seem to be losing to the bony ones. Talk has spread of a possible treaty with the skeletons, which would involve allowing them to live inside of us. Many people have debated the moral and ethical qualities of such an act, but no consensus has been reached as of yet.
People are Bloodthirsty
The term serial killer did not first come into use in our society until an unfortunate string of events in London around the turn of the 19th to 20th century. As you may guess, these events revolved around an unknown, faceless man, Jack the Ripper. Or so he liked to be called. Since then, this term has been used with zeal whenever a particularly nasty case of several people dying comes up, because as we all know, people are bloodthirsty. It runs in our veins. Take the Romans, for example. On certain days, they would take gladiators and make them fight against lions, other people, and all manner of wild beasts. Afterwards, if the poor fellow had survived, the people would decide whether they lived or died. Because, you know, it just wasn’t enough to put someone in a fight to the death, they also had to put the person under the stress of being executed if they even survived the ordeal.
But that’s just one example. Take the tribe of Native Americans that made their homes in Aztalan State Park. They disappeared a very long time ago, people think during a battle. They had a rather charming custom of eating their enemies after defeating them, apparently to absorb their strength and good qualities. Can I just say, eww? First of all, that is possibly the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard, but secondly, I can’t help but wonder what a human being would taste like. See? The bloodthirsty nature ingrained in most humans is even starting to affect me. Me, who is supposedly the most detached and clinical person certain people have met. (Though, to be fair, those people don’t get out very much.) So I’m just going to stop writing now, as I clearly cannot get over the curse that humanity has wrought.
-Glinda, Witch of the North
Thank you very much for your attention and have a nice day.
