The old farmhouse filled him with dread as it had never before. He had been here two times previously, each on the eve of Christmas.
The old crumbling site stood on a deserted road deceptively near the town of Salem yet so far off the main road that it proved no short cut at all. He and Alice had come the first time out of curiosity, the second time under much graver circumstances.
The man turned and looked up the road. His road-weary appearance spoke of long miles traveled in less than luxurious circumstances. The bus had dropped him near a cluster of old farmhouses, more dead than alive but still inhabited according to the bus driver who had the occasional rider into Salem. The man had had to walk from the drop-off. It had taken him several hours in the ankle-deep snows of December. A chill wind tugged at his worn and battered old coat.
But he had turned and looked up the road for another reason, not merely to ponder the great distances he had traveled in the last year. He sighed softly at the empty vista dotted with the occasional farmhouse and mirrored by the stars above. She had not yet arrived. And she would, he told himself. He had to hurry. It was almost midnight according to his wrist-watch.
He spun and ran toward the old house. Tall, dry weeds poked out of the small drifts against the rotting wood of the building. The structure was a clap-board affair common to the turn of the century, not some baronial building from the age of Cotton Mather. He placed a cold, mitten-less hand on the flimsy door and pushed. Producing a flashlight from his pocket he stepped over the dusty threshold.
Once inside, he saw that the building possessed only a single room, lit by two dirty windows. He did not want to remember the room but the ghosts of memories refused to be contained inside the man’s mental prisons. The sight of a dilapidated sofa reminded him of their first trip to the farmhouse, exactly two years past. They had been happy, young and newly-wed. Alice had been orphaned and had no relatives. His family lived on the West Coast and so they were alone for Christmas. What to do?
Both he and Alice had heard about the old structure around town. They knew the stories of how the Providence writer H.P. Lovecraft had seen the old place and written a story about it called, “The Picture in the House.” He had set the story in 1895 but the building had probably only been thirty or forty years old when the young writer had seen it. The couple had come to find the picture and the ghoulish relic supposed to be hiding there. All they found was dust and an old chesterfield that had seen better days but certainly hadn’t been part of the original decor. They had been disappointed—at first.
Arriving in his new station wagon they had pulled up to the old structure, taken a large flashlight each and wandered in. Five minutes later, no picture, no Lovecraftian horror. But being young, Alice had made the best of it. Grabbing him about the shoulders, she asked, “Ever make love in a haunted house before?” Falling to the abandoned sofa, they had enjoyed each other, a pleasure he had almost forgotten about in the intervening year. The idea of touching her now did not bring back the passion he had felt then.
After making love, they lie there listening to the sound of the wind whistling through the shingles. The house was abandoned and strangely warm despite the lack of furnace. A soft tinkling sound pulled them from their short reverie. The sound was the striking of a clock. There was no time-piece in the room.
At the twelfth ring a bright greenish light appeared in the middle of the single room. The two lovers had risen from the dusty sofa and watched rapt in the knowledge that something truly strange was happening. Their original disappointment was quickly replaced by fascination as a large leather bound book appeared in mid-air, open to a middle page.
“Is it? Is it what I think it is?” asked Alice, her mouth hanging open in an exact duplicate of his.
“The Necronomicon?” he agreed.
They approached the book together. The book lay flat as if supported on some ghostly, invisible table. Alice was the first to touch the volume, real and ancient under her fingers. She lifted the cover up and saw that the book was bound in dry, black hide with a swirling design in the center of the board, a twirling mandela of shapes and patterns.
“It is the Necronomicon,” she whispered.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said flatly. “Look at the words. Old, but in English. And not archaic ramblings of some Arab lunatic. It’s just a common spell book, like those on display in Salem.”
“But it’s floating in the air. That’s not so common.”
He agreed. The two read from the book for a while, occasionally pointing out an odd phrase or antiquated spelling. It was Alice who found the spell on a later page. “Look here,” she announced as he finished an earlier one. She had always read faster than he did.
“What is it?”
“‘A spell for true lovers,’ it’s called.”
They read together, softly. The spell required the two casters to speak a short phrase then kiss until they drew blood on their lips.
“Let’s try it,” offered Alice, her eyes hot with passion.
“I don’t know—blood on our lips?”
“Don’t be a wuss,” she chided, taking both his hands. “Say the words with me. ‘Extor, Extor, Nadar, Nadar...’ ” Finished the meaningless words, they embraced, kissing. Alice pressed hard with her lips and he wanted to pull back but fought the urge. Harder she pressed and he no longer tried to stop himself, though it made no difference. She pushed and pushed until he tasted blood on his teeth. Touching his lips, he saw that it was his blood.
Alice licked the red stain from her own and smiled. “Now we’ll be together forever. No matter what.”
“Yes, no matter what,” he echoed.
The phantom clock sounded then, a single peal—twelve-fifteen—which died slowly with the green light.
He stumbled in the dark toward the sofa and the flashlights. Clicking one on, they saw the book was gone.
That had been the first Christmas, two years ago. The second visit to the farmhouse had been an entirely different affair. That year, early in the month of December, Alice had given birth to their first child. But something had gone terribly wrong in the delivery and both mother and child had died. He was crushed. The happiest day of his life had quickly become the worst. And as he had sat alone on Christmas Eve he remembered the farmhouse and the spell. It hadn’t worked and he wanted to scream that at the author of the book, to tear out the pages written there and spit his anger on them.
The station wagon, still shiny and new in appearance tore down the icy road toward the abandoned site. He had stormed into the small one-room building, this time unlike the laughing and cheerful visit the year before. The time was 11: 55 pm. He had sat and waited on the sofa, watching the time. At exactly midnight, the chimes rang from whatever netherworld they belonged and the green light returned along with the book. He leapt up with a torrent of abuse on his lips but it faded as he saw the pages of the book fluttering of their own power. The motion stopped as suddenly. He looked down on a page and read.
Another spell. “To bring back a true love.” But he needed a possession of hers. Something special. He’d have to return to Salem, get her favorite shirt, or a piece of jewelry. Then he remembered. He had her wedding ring in his pocket. He never went anywhere without it, not since—
He lifted the ring up and spoke the words, “Extor radicul, Nadar nadi...” A weird throbbing pulsed through the green aura around the book and it disappeared at the stroke of one. Nothing. She wasn’t back. She wasn’t alive. It was just like the last spell, he had thought.
He stumbled back to the car, drove it like a maniac until he found a roadside bar. Later, after many drinks, he made it home, and fell into his dark bed. Only he wasn’t alone.
“Darling! You’re back!” he whispered in joy. Only a harsh whisper answered him. He kissed her softly on the lips. A hand grabbed him roughly on the back of the neck and pressed their faces hard together. He thought he would suffocate as he tasted dirt and blood in his mouth. Only one desperate punch dislodged the grim thing that clutched at him.
He ran. And had been running for a whole year. But now he was back at the farmhouse, though his station wagon had long since disappeared to finance his flight. There had to be a spell in the book. A spell that would release her, release them from their original compact.
The ghost clock struck its first chime but he didn’t hear it. A dull cry came from beyond the door. She was here—Alice.
He moved quickly. Using all his strength he shoved hard as he picked up one end of the ancient chesterfield. It slid with a chorus of creaks and jingles from the worn springs. A cloud of dust filled the room as the sofa halted in front of the doorway, blocking the inward swinging portal.
He had fled from her, on train, cars, even planes. But she came and she came and she came. And now she was here. Nowhere could he be rid of her, unless— Remembering the book, he ignored the slapping of meaty hands on the door and read the titles from page to page. He stopped when he came across words that filled him with expectant joy. The spell was simply called ‘Removal of loved things’.
Wasting no more time, he read the words, “Nadar, nexi, radiculi ...” and enacted the motions which required him to bite painfully down on his own thumb to draw blood. But what was the dull agony after a year of constant running? He waited for long minutes and could hear very little. The pounding had stopped. So, the spell had worked. But something else brought a chill to his spine. Where was the sound of the wind gone, the distant barking dogs, the occasional car on the snowy roads?
He tore at the sofa. The singular piece of furniture drew away from the door at his rough insistence. He pulled the door inward, about to rush outside and see what remained of his former wife. Beyond the board-wood door, he saw a thing which he had never loved, and then he knew why she hadn’t disappeared. She looked like Alice, except where skin had been soft and white only grey leather existed. And the eyes peering from that hideous countenance was one of burning vengeance. Her umber limbs clutched the door-frame like a spider.
He tried to slam the door closed but her hand shot out with unusual strength. Her dry lips opened and a hissing followed, a shriveled and desiccated tongue but no words were formed. He knew he couldn’t hold her back and let the door go. The thing that had been Alice stumbled slightly and he kicked with all his remaining strength. The blow caught her squarely in the belly, sending her flying over and over into the air.
It was then that he saw what his eyes had not registered early, his attention on his dead wife. A flat, grey nothingness filled the horizon. No cars, no distant farm lights, no stars. It was all gone. Everything. Only Alice’s twirling and shrinking form existed in the void and it spun away like a wheel in space.
He slammed the door, leapt back to the book. He slowed himself down with titanic effort and re-read the page. There! He had missed one sentence. That part of the spell required he state what loved thing he wanted removed or else— He had to reverse it and now!
The solitary peal of twelve-fifteen filled the room. The green light faded almost immediately. He tried to tear the page from the book but it became insubstantial in his fingers and was gone. And it wouldn’t be back for another year, not until next Christmas Eve. He’d have to wait that long. He had a chocolate bar in his coat pocket. That might get him through a week. No water, three days. And the hissing sound coming from under the door? Would the air last even that long?
