The Awakening by Rain Oxford Read Free Book Online

children, one could see a calm,
almost beautiful expression, as if death had erased the accumulated
frustrations and worries that life provided. But in this nine-year-old boy’s
face something had gone awry, leaving him subtly changed, distorted. As if the
hand of evil had touched him and left him… unclean.
    Dr. Hillard massaged his temples with his fingertips,
frowning, the sharp edges of a headache beginning. Another examination wasn’t
going to do shit. There wasn’t a mark on the boy that wouldn’t be expected on a
nine-year-old… except for the burn on his hand… The boy had been fine the day
before, so he hadn’t been sick enough to die. Poison? Unlikely; none of the
tests had shown anything suspicious. No visible evidence of foul play of any
kind. He pulled the sterile white sheet up, covering the small naked body. He’s
dead. Why? Because he died.
    He carried the bottle and glass to his small desk
where the death certificate and report lay. They would read apparent accidental
drowning if it stopped here, but it would be wrong. The Altura Coroner’s office
would have to take care of it, put an official tag on the boy’s death. He hated
the idea. The boy’s father was in bad enough shape, already, and having to go
through all of this again was going to be rough.
    The whiskey was working at last; he could feel the
warm numbness seeping through his body and making everything a little soft and
fuzzy. He began filling in the spaces on the transfer form, slowly, one by one.
A few faint flashes of lightning came through the window beside the desk as if
making comments on what he was writing. He drained his glass and refilled it
again, not noticing that the temperature in the room had begun dropping. He had
just finished the first page when he heard the sound of cloth falling to the
floor.
     
    *          *          *
     
    It had been long, but now it was being called. The
way had been closed and it had waited, dreamless and impatient. But now the way
was opening, changing, and it was hungry for freedom and flesh and evil. It
moved.
    The waiting was over.
     
    *          *          *
     
    Beneath the staircase in the Jarman’s house was a
doorway leading to a small room; inside, Richard Jarman’s wife, son and
daughter waited. At the far end of the room was a huge block of carved stone
that served as an altar. On it were black candles in brass holders, incense,
and a human skull. On the floor was drawn the circle of protection with a five
pointed star in the center, the pentagram.
    His wife, son, and daughter were naked except for a
few simple designs painted on their bodies. The children’s eyes were blank and
glassy from the drugs his wife had given to them. He was proud of his children.
They were pure. They had had nothing to do with any outsiders, and he had
trained them himself. The boy was fifteen, the girl was sixteen; both of them
untouched and beautiful.
    He redrew the magic circle with his family inside,
then drew a pentagram on the face of the altar. Two points were at the top, the
invitation of evil. Chanting, he lit the candles and then the incense.
    Next he placed a mixture of powders and greases into
a meal bowl, lit the mixture with one of the candles, and placed the bowl in
the center of the circle. A foul, black smoke began curling around his fingers,
then twisted its way toward the low ceiling in a serpentine dance.
    Richard motioned. His daughter rose and stood between
the altar and the bowl, her feet wide apart and her arms raised. The smoke
shifted its direction and began winding around her legs and hips, over her
torso to caress her small breasts, and then up her arms to disappear into the
gloom. Her hips began to move to her father’s chanting voice, sluggishly at
first, then faster, as if encouraged by the black hands of smoke.
    He slipped the black handled dagger from its sheath
and knelt before her. With the razor sharp edge he touched one of her