I wrote this shortstory in 2022 after reading Lovecraft for the first time. It was first published in Vol. 66 of the Delta Journal. Turn out the lights and play some Atrium Carceri (:

January 23rd, 1896

To Aleister

To May

And to all my brothers and sisters of the GD,

I write to you now to explain. And to make it clear that I am sorry.

 None of you will need for reminder of my discovery in Germany last year. Having managed an escape without apprehension by the authorities here or on the mainland, Sarah and I were all too excited to rejoin you at the London Temple and show you what we had found. It is… sickening to recall the warnings you all first gave me that afternoon, as we gathered to marvel at the encrypted contents of that ancient scroll.

But when have vaguely cautioning words ever deterred the curiosity of man? The potential secrets interred within such an artifact were mesmerizing to consider, and the opportunity to unravel any knowledge hitherto untasted by the occult community, or indeed the world at large, blinded my capabilities for reason, or wisdom. 

After returning to our estate outside Aldeburgh, I set about the application of all my available time to the decryption and translation of the scroll. This was, as you might expect, far from a simple feat. Even after consultations with several linguists and mathematicians, I found that my days stretched long into my nights. My frustration with the task mounted with each passing dawn.

Sarah was, in her typical fashion, my greatest comfort, assistant, and companion. Though she knew very little of Cornelius Agrippa’s legacy as an occultist, and her pursuits in the Order focused only on Theurgy, she aided the process in her own way. My quite pregnant wife would come every night, knock on the wooden door of my study, and bring in her offering of shortbread and black coffee. She would sit beside my writing desk, listen to my aggravated rants about the freshest obstacles in the process, and her unfailingly acute mind would pick out some mistake I made along the way. Then, after providing her single, insightful suggestion, she would kiss me on the cheek and retire to our bedchambers alone.

Seven long weeks elapsed in this fashion. By the end of it, I’d finally completed my decrypted transcription of the scroll’s contents in their original Latin. The subsequent translation effort involved Sarah’s gracious assistance once again, for my skills in the language were always reluctant and rudimentary.

This was especially true as the language became more complex and esoteric towards the scroll’s end. Instead of occasionally consulting her when a question arose, I asked for her dedicated partnership in translation for a few hours each evening – She agreed with obvious apprehensions. Though still far from the Catholicism of her youth, Sarah was an undoubtedly more wary and cautious Mage than I. We had spoken, more than once, as to her concern about straying into the darker forms of magic. My deductions could only lead me to believe that she possessed, though to what degree I cannot say, some secret fears of suffering a faulty theology. She feared straying too far into the dark, or being led astray, and accidentally consigning herself to the unending clutches of hellfire. If not the unspeakable clutches of something worse. 

It was the result of those very hidden feelings that I believe she went truly ashen at the first mention of the name of Baal. The two of us, as so many do out in the country, received a thorough biblical education throughout our youth, and thus we needed no introduction to the deity’s ghastly significance – the child-sacrifices in Canaan, the cult traditions of self-mutiliation, and the deeds of King Ahab and Queen Jezebel.

Still, our effort only revealed his name towards its end. The majority of the scroll simply detailed the necessary materials, and lengthy preparation for a “negotium” – an affair, a kind of business exchange or employment, as Sarah explained it. The preparations seemed relatively innocuous to us as we read them, until we reached the instructions for the Ritual itself.

It seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be a complex kind of demonic evocation ritual -- the kind of magic we call Goetia. Sarah’s fearful nature had forbidden me to attempt such magic, and she herself would never investigate or learn its characteristic features.

It came to her as sudden surprise, then, and to me as a creeping suspicion, that we realized the scroll to detail the method of communion with one “Ba’al Hammon” – Ba’al of the Brazier. Sarah immediately voiced her concerns – telling me she was no longer comfortable aiding me, telling me this was the kind of magic which was dangerous, and telling me that I should stop at once. I pleaded with her to see reason. I was not looking to perform the ritual, merely to translate and understand the scroll’s contents. I reminded her of the dangers we encountered breaking into Cornelius’s true tomb in Germany, in the efforts we made to escape the country before the authorities could discover and confiscate the artifact, and of the potential that a full translation and publication of such a discovery could mean for the legacy of our family. Then, seeing her only partially moved, I raised my voice at her. I told her that if her superstitious fears would end the process now, she would doom all my hard work to be wasted.

It was not true, of course. Translating the rest would’ve only required the brief employment of a less scrupulous expert in the language. But the idea of doing so for what little text there was remaining… it rankled me. And my goading worked. Though she remained pallid and obviously frightened, we continued into the night and completed that singular decrypted and translated work of Goetian arcana.

Do not dare the folly to look for it. It is ashes.

After the thing was complete, Sarah removed herself from my study. I let her go; there seemed nothing I could properly do to remedy her feelings toward me, beyond giving her time to forgive. Instead, I remained awake a while longer to finally begin studying those unprecedented secrets.

Do not misunderstand me now – Aleister and many others will be quite familiar with the Lesser Key of Solomon’s lamen and details on the subject of the demon “Bael.” It has been common knowledge to assume that these two, Bael and Baal, were variant spellings for the same entity – that the person and sigils of that ancient, child-eating demon of Canaan was already under the scope of our growing body of occult knowledge.

We were wrong.

The sigil, you understand, was nothing akin to those found in the Lemegeton. For clarity’s sake, I will specify – none of them were. Most Goetian rituals I had hitherto encountered involved only one seal, sigil, or lamen for the Sorcerer to wear about his neck. The wiser and more educated mage would pair this with a spell-circle for protection as well. 

The Ritual for communion with Ba’al Hammon involved three sigils total. The first of the triad was nightmarishly complex, involving several concentric circles scrawled with a mixture of Hebrew characters, and a series of other characters I was never able to identify – strangely curved, swooping black markings that ended or began with sharp, straight strokes. The instructions provided that the circle should be marked on the ground with fresh charcoal, if possible, and that a brazier of coals belonged at its very center.

The second sigil was unlike any others I’ve seen. It was nearly rectangular, rather than circular, but tapered out towards one end. A line of Hebrew characters ran along its edges, and a near-mural of overlapping characters from that mysterious, swooping script dominated its center. At first, I wondered if it was intended to serve as some misshapen, primitive lamen, but the scroll corrected me.

It was to be inscribed or etched upon the flat side of a blade – a ritual dagger.

The third of the sigils was undoubtedly the simplest. Considering the location of its application, this was for the best. It called, you see, for a single row of Hebrew characters to be cut into the flesh of a still-living creature. The Latin translation was difficult here, but we deemed it appropriate to use the adjectival phrase “freshly-born.” The scroll specified that any species of animal with the “breath of life” within them would theoretically suffice, but that tradition held this place for an infant goat… or a human child.

I am sure that some of my brothers and sisters reading this are already recoiling at the very thought of such an incantation. Some others… perhaps you will empathize with me more as I continue. 

Because, despite the undoubtedly violent implications of what has been discussed, there was an addendum located at the scroll’s end. It opened with a harsh warning for any who would attempt such a communion without dedication, rehearsal, and a careful attention to the instructions and specifications interred within the scroll’s encryption…

“But if thou art possessed of an undivided mind and your attention to the Cloud-Rider’s instructions is complete and unwavering, then you shall gaze into the flames and behold that which sits in His right hand –

a name and fame that rides the clouds into long eternity

a rain of wealth and blessed tidings for your house, and

a newfound wisdom to truly see it all, at last

-C.A.”

Do I dare to tell you that my heart was intrigued? Would you think me a fool in my entirety? That – for the cost of a young goat I might otherwise roast for an evening meal – I might make benefit of untold powers that have waited a thousand years beyond the pale? Untold powers that have watched every worshipper they once possessed die out and whither into dust? I could only imagine the great favor a man like me might curry for calling Him back into this waiting world. I wouldn’t need to sacrifice a child. What care do we humans have for the lives of our livestock anyway?

When I asked myself that concluding question, I felt in my heart a flickering shadow of a doubt. I knew that I was an excitable man – even romantic in my particular fascinations. It was well past the witching hour in my study, and I decided to put a hold on my thoughts and rest. After all, I couldn’t perform the ritual that night if I even wanted to. The Ritual involved a considerable amount of preparation, including a full month without “defiling oneself upon the body of a woman” for the sake of ceremonial purity.

Though I embraced my bed at last, it was a long time before I slept.

When I woke the next day, some of the realities of the question began to set in. Chiefly above all, completing the specifications of the ritual without Sarah’s knowledge would have been challenging. My nocturnal habits did not often involve a week’s worth of celibacy – but an entire month?  She would undoubtedly suspect something was amiss, and my decision to require her aid in translation meant that she was fully aware of what that might imply about my motives. This was enough, at first, to put the idea of a real attempt fully out of my mind. 

Fate, it would seem, was not interested in relieving me of my temptation. I discovered quite quickly that my wife was far more upset with me than I had originally assumed. Our marriage had seen its fair share of trouble in the past, with stints of silence, bitter words, and even a few true arguments – but this was something far more severe. 

Not only did Sarah keep her words with me brief, and her time around me at the estate as occasional as possible – she actually denied me when I looked to resume our nightly marital obligations. At first, she informed me that her pregnancy had developed to a point wherein it would be dangerous for us to continue with our typical rate of nightly intercourse. This was frustrating, as you might expect, but I begrudgingly accepted it. After a full week of her cold demeanor and sexual rejection, though, my suspicions began to surface.

I initated correspondance with a premiere gynocological doctor from London, and asked his professional opinion on the subject. His response assured me that my desires were not in the least bit threatening to our child. He even added that, considering her behavior, I could rest assured that Sarah was only experiencing a temporary flight of prenatal hysteria. It was common amongst women, and I should simply be patient and allow her faculties to recover. 

I knew my Sarah better than that, however. She was a cut above the hysterical emotion that plagued the rest of her sex, with a stouter mind and firmer grasp over herself. Her rejection was absolutely intentional, and of a sound mind. She was choosing to deny me, and that made the denial even more bitterly venomous. 

By the time the month’s end had arrived, we had already begun sleeping in separate rooms at the estate. In an attempt to impress upon her the extent of my displeasure, I settled into the unparalleled comforts of the couch I kept by the window of my study. As such, we hardly ever saw each other excepting chance meetings in the dining room for our meals. 

But she did not seem to care in the slightest. She never apologized, never sought reconciliation. I was absolutely shocked and appalled, even alarmed. It took only a little more time for the cluster of emotions to melt down into a scorching hole of bitterness. Every night, as I fell asleep on the couch, I would glimpse that scroll where it sat upon my writing desk, and the hole would burn a little blacker.

My thoughts protested – If I was going to suffer the prolonged chill of her displeasure, why would I continue honoring her requests? Why should I limit the extents of my magical pursuits, when she would not see her own hysterical bitterness limited in any way?

I was an utter fool, blinded by my selfishness and my greed. I see that now, only too late.

The knife seemed the most challenging particular of the ritual to prepare. I considered hiring some smith or smith’s apprentice to fashion me one with the sigil etched into it, but quickly tossed the idea aside. I did not want to risk the contents of the scroll leaking out into another sorcerer's hands. Furthermore, there was no way of knowing how precise the work of an English smith might be in the inscription of Hebrew letters. 

Instead, I endeavored to fashion a suitable facsimile of the implement from a knife I already had on hand. My grandfather, you see, had once maintained a rather considerable collection of Sax knives, as an object of historical fascination. Most of them were rusted, ancient and wholly unusable things dug up from old Saxon gravesites. However, he had also placed a custom order for one with a smith who specialized in crafting historical weapon replicas. The heart attack took him shortly after it arrived, and so the straight, virgin blade was put directly into storage.

It was the perfect ritual dagger – plain iron and almost a foot long. After retrieving it, I retreated to my study and stripped away the protective oil coating. A few experiments with various acids ensued, but I eventually discovered one which would sufficiently eat away at the metal after the simple application by a non-reactive brush. I spent the next several hours painstakingly painting the sigil’s design upon the metal in undiluted acid, and gave it time to etch deep into the blade’s surface.

After that, amassing the various bizarre, small items, the right amount of charcoal, and the iron brazier took little time at all. They waited in or beside a chest in my study, as I made the final preparations. 

That afternoon, I went out into the hills outside my estate to speak with the fieldmen in my employ. I had never been particularly interested in the details of their shepherding, so long as the profits from the pursuit remained acceptable. The humble workmen therefore seemed somewhat confused by my sudden questions. In the hopes of averting suspicion and keeping rumors from reaching my wife, I told them that I was experimenting with the creation of a new goat-based vellum for sale. The ruse worked – my herders were enthusiastically helpful, and informed me that a nanny had given birth only eight days prior. One even offered to slaughter the little thing for me. I informed him that I would manage and then quickly took the spotless white babe back to my study. 

The night of the new moon marked a month and a day since I had last touched my wife. There was very little left but to perform what I had been wanting from the beginning.

Night fell. Thick, dark clouds had rolled in that evening and choked out any hint of light from above. When the estate finally settled into a deep slumber, I donned my Order robes, drew the circle in charcoal upon the hardwood floor, and steadied my mind and my breathing.

Despite what the rest of my behavior might imply, I need you to understand the degree of care and protection I took. Alongside the primary summoning circle, I drew an additional circle of protection to stand in as I worked. I performed the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram three times in my anxiety, and wore a ring Aleister had enchanted with wardings for me in any Goetic pursuits.

With meticulous planning, an abundance of protection, and a blinded, blackened heart, I went over to the closet where I had stored the young goat. She stumbled out eagerly, braying and prancing about before I plucked her up with one hand. Tying her mouth shut and her legs together with a length of leather cord, I ensured she would not wander or distract me in the moments to come. Then, I stepped into my ritual circle and began.

For your sake, my friends, I will not detail the exact steps. There are too many of you who possess a curiosity akin to my own. Do not blame me if I seek to protect you from yourself. 

Let it suffice to say that the numerous Hermetic visualizations, the incantations uttered, and the symbolic motions of the ceremony took almost two full hours to complete. It was exhausting, even after my frequent rehearsals and memorization. 

By the end, I’d lit the coals in the brazier and they were burning brightly. The time had come.

I laid the goat over the surface of the small table altar I had put out for this purpose, and turned the dagger upon her chest. The leather cord aided in muffling its screeches and groans, but the job was… messily done. I nearly broke concentration entirely as she squirmed and I was forced to pin her in place.

But in a few minutes I had cut the third and final sigil into the soft flesh over the goats heart. I lifted my voice with the Latin phrase provided, demanding the Cloud-Rider’s attention and calling him by name. Then, I plunged the knife into the goat’s chest, yanked it free amidst a spurting of hot blood, and cast her directly into the embers.

There was a loud sizzling from the hair taking fire, and a pillar of smoke billowing up into the rest of the room. Nausea rocked me like a storm, as I breathed in the smell – eggs rotting, meat burning, and a sickly, sweet note I never could have anticipated. The sharp sensation that ignited between the smoke and my open eyes was enough to completely break my concentration. I hardly noticed the little thing’s muffled screams until the leather cord broke.

That was when I heard her knock at the door. Whether Sarah came to reconcile with me that night, or simply overheard my incantations amidst a spell of insomnia, I do not know – all I knew at the time was that she was not standing inside my protective ritual circle. 

Despite the open windows behind me, black smoke had completely shrouded my vision of the room. Everything was dark, beyond the dull orange lake of the brazier. I heard door hinges, and Sarah’s voice calling out, and then her sudden scream.

The smoke… vanished from the room all at once, as if it had never been there. The body of the young goat was gone, too, and a pale moonlight from the windows illuminated my wholly unbothered study. The brazier, the charcoal – all evidence of the ceremony I’d performed was absent. Sarah’s voice, so charmingly soft and sweet, called to me from behind the closed door to the hallway, and the handle twisted slow.

It opened, not to Sarah, but to a single, black goat. A faint, high pitched laugh echoed to one side of me, as the pale figure of an infant child crawled past my leg on all fours. And then another, emerging from the shadows beneath my writing desk. And then another. And another. I blanched, gazing around at a swarm of newborns clawing out from under my couch, from the cabinet, from every shadow and corner of the room with smiles and laughter. Without warning, all of them went silent, froze in place, and turned their eyes toward me.

The black goat, still in the doorway, lifted itself onto its hind legs. The whole room erupted into flames.

I have never felt the onslaught of such a sudden agony – the feeling of my bare feet pressed into red-hot iron, like raw meat on a griddle primed for searing. The robes I wore nigh-evaporating into ash, I looked down to my own skin bubbling, splitting, weeping. Even as I yelped aloud and jerked my feet up and away in an animalistic dance, I earned barely a moment’s relief before crashing firmly back down onto the griddle. I lifted my blistering hands to cover my face, and felt the flames burning away my hair.

I danced, screaming mad, until I was burnt raw and naked and hairless as a newborn babe myself, and I heard Sarah’s voice pleading from somewhere far away.

That was when she tugged me off of the brazier at the center of the ritual circle. The flames I thought were engulfing the room vanished, the smoke returned, and I crashed to the hardwood floor of my study at the feet of my horrified, pregnant wife. 

She was weeping, and begging to know what I had done. I’d only begun to wipe away my tears with my singed, blackened robes, when her body stiffened still. Her skin color quieted into a pallid gray-white. Her body shriveled like fig leaves under a desert sun. Her tears were black tar, and the whispered accusations of a hundred flies swarmed around us. Sarah smiled as her belly split open.

The stink of rot and maggots and flies, the lukewarm touch of pus and amniotic fluid, and the sound of deep laughter all washed over me at once. There was so much, dripping down from the ceiling and onto my face and into my screaming mouth. I watched my wife crumple to the floor, and felt a cold, clawed hand gripping the back of my neck.

I need you to understand. I… I didn’t want to. Everything was changing so quickly, I didn’t understand what was happening. But a writhing, rotten mass of maggots and green-gray flesh at my feet was sucking on the body of my wife, and filled my nostrils with such a smell. That cold hand pulled me along, and I could not will my limbs to resist.

My shaking hands lifted the gray-green flesh off of the floor. I turned back to the brazier behind me. The tears streaming from my eyes blurred my vision as I stepped forward. My hands hesitated over the flames. That laughter resumed, vibrating the floor with the deepest emanations and settling into the cavity within my chest. Each finger trembled as they burned over the lake of embers, and the only control my grief could conjure was to wail.

My grasp loosened, and then everything went black.

I awoke on the floor, when our servants found us. It was dawn. The ritual dagger was still in my hands, covered in red blood. The unshriveled, stiff body of my wife lay on the floor. Her umbilical stretched up from her torn clothes, across the boundary of the charcoal-drawn circle, into the iron of the brazier.

The charred remains of our child sat within. It did not take the servants, or myself, long to realize what I had truly done.

When this letter reaches you at the temple, you will doubtless have already heard another version of the tale I have just recounted. For the sake of the truth, for the sake of Sarah’s memory, I only ask that you believe this one. She played no intentional role. It is all a stain upon my own arrogant hands. 

Do not look for me, unless you bring the coroner.

May God have mercy upon my soul.

– Tennyson