Crescent City Creeps 12: Demiurge Overkill – Prologue

Demiurge Overkill



Sylvia stared into a glowing pool in her garden, watching the images of future and past scurry through her vision. She gazed in a trance as the water spoke to her about things to come. She shuddered and scrambled to her feet, racing about the house throwing drawers and cabinets wide until she found a blue cookie tin. Inside were all manner of seamstress’s implements. She pulled the sheet off her bed and began cutting it into pieces. When she was satisfied with her collection of linen scraps she set about sewing them together into the likeness of a man. A man bearing a crude resemblance to Delareux. She set the cloth figure onto an altar and sat before it. She placed a metal wastebasket on the floor and shredded some newspaper into it and then lit it on fire.

“My deepest apologies, detective,” she whispered. “This is selfish and unfair of me, but I need you to dream your dream, detective, dream. Seek out the High Priestess.”

She placed her finger on the head of the Delareux doll and tipped it into the fire.

Delareux awoke the next day and opened his eyes. He couldn’t decide whether the ceiling he was looking at was familiar or not. It wasn’t the ceiling he went to sleep under. His head was ringing and the light pierced his eyes, rendering him blind to detail. Of what he could ascertain, the ceiling was brown, maybe wooden. Next to his uncomfortable bed was a blue blob.

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T.J. Washington In “B Is For Basement” Pt. 4

Late to the game? Catch up here.

IV. 21 and Done

I took a nice long drag on my cigarette and exhaled it over the top of my coffee mug so I couldn’t tell the smoke from the steam. I looked at my wrists again, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming as I thought about the dream I had just finished doing. I say doing instead of having because it’s a more accurate description. After all, the point of language is to, as close as is possible, describe things that you can’t point a finger at and say “That’s what I mean.” Language does the best it can at this despite being used mostly by people.

Before I lulled myself into an internal debate about the differences between language and communication, I pulled a beat-up leather-bound journal from underneath the pile of last week’s mail. I had bought it years ago with the intention of keeping a daily journal of my thoughts and activities but got distracted from writing them down by the nature of my daily thoughts and activities. I fished a pen out of the pocket of the shirt I slept in and clicked it three times even though once would have been plenty.

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T.J. Washington In “B Is For Basement” Pt. 3

Late to the game? Catch up here.

III. 3×7

“I’m not the devil,” the man stressed before taking a sip of his beer before continuing, “I’m a devil and I hear you’re a shaman.”

I guessed I was in a bar. I hadn’t looked around yet, but judging from what I already experienced, bar seemed a safe bet.

This would be pretty weird if it happened while I was awake, but was pretty standard for double dreams. People are always acting like this in double and triple dreams. I’ve never met anyone who’s been in a quadruple dream.

“C’mon now,” I said as I raised my palm and pushed him back with my eyes.

“Sorry, didn’t see your light.”

“Easy mistake, I tend to keep it covered or dimmed,” I said turning to leave.

“Understood, nice knowing ya.”

“Likewise,” I replied while going through the door.

Once through the doorway I found myself sitting across from an old man, obviously a widower judging from the decor. I was wearing a black suit, a red shirt with a black tie and a two-toned hat. One of the tones was black and the other was red. We were smoking pipes in silence, one of my favorite things to do on a cool fall evening, which a glance out the window confirmed it was.

After some time two little kids came through the door without guns. One was dressed like a witch but with a long gray beard and the other was in a wizard’s robe. Must be Halloween. They were holding a broom and staff respectfully. The items looked familiar for some reason unknown to me. Recognizing stuff you don’t isn’t anything that usually needs to be worried about in a dream. No telling where one’s mind pulls dream imagery from. It’s not a question I ponder much.

The kids seemed nice enough but it was too late for them to be coming in and they didn’t have any candy. Candy-less kids on a day like this is dirty pool, even for dreams. They were covered in what I intuitively knew to be monster guts. We had a pleasant enough conversation, I suppose. I decided to leave a few minutes after I was referred to as “Grand Magus” by the old man. I knew what one was, that I was one, and why I was dressed in the manner I was. I wasn’t happy about it though.

The imagery was indicative of some of the parts of my Self that I don’t put forward very often. The reasons I choose to put a bushel over my light, so to speak, are mine to keep. Exerting spiritual or magickial energy can be, and usually is, a nuisance wrapped in a hindrance. I prefer to remain invisible to the unseen universe as much as I possibly can. Easier for everyone that way.

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Crescent City Creeps #11


…In That Quiet Earth

Shelby held a sprig of holly in her hand, her arm outstretched, pointing it at a bull’s eye target on hung from a door. Her head was down and her eyes forward and squinting. She bit down on her bottom lip and shifted her weight back and forth between her feet.

“This time don’t overthink it,” Sylvia said, straightening Shelby’s arm, “Feel it. Don’t just think about hitting your target, feel yourself hitting the target.”

Shelby crooked her head and jabbed the holly sprig at the target. A green pulse of light fired from the branch and sailed toward the target. The door swung open and Delareux stood in the frame, staring down a blob of faerie fire. He pinched his cigarette between his thumb and middle finger and pitched it with a flick. It stuck the fire and became wrapped in moss and foliage. It hit the ground and tried to crawl away as it screamed.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Sylvia picked up the agonized creature, “I’m so sorry this was how you met life.”

She turned her head, closed her eyes and squeezed until she heard a snap. She dug a small hole in a potted plant and placed the creature within, then covered it back up.

“Holy crap,” Shelby said, eyes wide, “You killed it.”

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Ed Danvers Case File: The Sins of the Father Pt. 4

Ed Danvers Case Files:

Sins of the Father

Part Four:

There Are No Strings On Me

Laurel had given me the skinny on her research into the families being targeted by Reverend Wendell. The families were a circle of friends that included the Wendells. They apparently had large sums of money pooled into a bunch of investments and were making a killing. That explains the mansion in the boonies. Their portfolio was managed by a hedge fund manager only identified as Zyxyn. Now that sounds more like devil work, paperwork and contracts. About a month before the attack on Karen Wendell they severed their relationship with Zyxyn. Is this all over a breach of contract? This all seems very personal. Zyxyn is getting his hands awful dirty over a simple breach of contract.

“A devil’s gotta be pretty pissed off not to outsource the possession work…” I mused aloud, downing a shot of something brown.

“Isn’t that pretty much what they do?” Vyx asked from behind the bar, pointing his metal hand at the TV, flipping the channels.

“Demons possess. Devils make deals. Possession is low work for the rabble.”

“Your world has a lot of weird rules.”

“It’s not my world, I just work there.”

“Devils and demons. Ghouls and ghosts,” he planted his hands on his hips and shook his head with a big grin. That thing he does when he thinks I’m slipping into madness.

“Vicksy, we just saw a girl with a goat head standing in a ring of fire and you’re still going to give me that shit-eating grin?”

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