Spookentine Stories: Little Man Who Wasn't There

I've always loved reading biographies.

As a mostly solitary student, I found comfort in intimacy. To know someone so deeply made me feel less lonely, even if they were long dead. I had a motley crew on my bookshelf by junior year of college. Most of the Golden Age movie stars were there. A few great emperors. Any woman who picked up a pen from 1700 to 1960. But my most treasured were my magics, my occultists. I referred to them affectionately on a first name basis. Helena. Gerald. John. Marie. Laurie. Anne. William B. I showed them all the Preston hoping he would pick them up as eagerly as I did. But he only scoffed.

"These aren't real occultists. Kind of basic, don't you think?" He asked me, tossing Stanislas de Guaita onto the floor. It was the typical move for someone who didn't know what they were talking about. They tear it down. They act like it's beneath them. I hold my tongue. I don't tell him my boy, Stanislas, was the one who doodled the original satanic goat design. He was occult royalty. He deserves a little more respect than the floor.

Preston was the college boyfriend you love when you don't love yourself. I only took one phycology class, but he's an easy diagnosis. Narcissistic. Obsessive. Dialusions of grandeur. The liver of a truck driver twice his age. But everyone has that pair of rose colored glasses in their closet. He was also adventurous, funny. He was so good looking. I couldn't believe he'd stayed interested in me. He had the "idea" of what a fun, loving relationship should be, but he never followed through with it. He had the same charisma that danced between movie star and serial killer. Looking back now, it explains why he latched on to things the way he did.

I thought him taking the book meant he was changing, that he would read it and come back for another one. That he was opening up a few of my interests.

After that weekend I met up with him, hoping to discuss his findings.

That kind of hope opens dangerous doors.

Preston thumbs through the rest of my books until he comes across something. His eyes light up. He pulls out a familiar face.

Most would only know him from the corner of the Sergant Pepper album.

The front cover calls him The Beast.

Preston knows him as Aleister.

I call him what only a few call him. I call him Uncle Al.

You never get to pick who comes to you, who floats off your bookshelf. Witches are always on their guard. Photo by win.doh

Lots of people are inspired by Aleister Crowley. If not sane people, then highly entertaining ones. Ozzy Osbourne. Kenneth Anger. Alan Moore. Neil Gaiman. The writers for Supernatural. Scientologists. Everyone, whether they realize it or not, has a piece from the Father of Thelema in their lives. Personally, he's a guilty pleasure of mine. It's the theatricality. The aesthetic. The commitment. Anyone from the world of entertainment can't deny, the man had style. Nausiating, manipulative, disgusting style. Like a drunken family relative at Christmas. You care for them, but you won't sit next to them at the table. Maybe he was that drunken uncle. Who knows? I had plenty of relatives running around on the continent in the 1920s. One of them could have sat in the parlor with Uncle Al. Weird, drunk, creepy Uncle Al.

It's possible to adore something that's incredibly horrible and still keep your distance.

As long as you don't dabble too deep. Don't fly blind. Don't think you're better than something you don't fully understand. Don't be stupid.

Preston was stupid for so many reasons. The others will take up plenty of blog posts.

But this one.

He always walked through things without any regard to how they'd affect people around him. He thought he could do whatever he wanted however he pleased. If anything bad happened, it wouldn't be to him.

I still don't know what he was doing with that book when I gave it to him. I don't know what he took from it. What he looked up when he finished with it. But I do know that Friday when we met for drinks, he was suddenly the expert on Uncle Al. Not me.

As most men do when they discover something that people have studied for years.

"Imagine that kind of attraction. Having that kind of magnitude."

Preston's on his third vesper. He's been droning on and on about "esoteric energy" and "decadent Pan". One book and suddenly all the academics at Oxford can't teach him anything. He "knows" Aleister Crowley.

They have a "connection".

I have my third Dorothy Parker.

I don't have the energy or sobriety to tell him he just used a malaprop. Or that he's been misquoting everything. The biography is soaking up the spilled booze on the bar. I want to be mad. But I don't want to be lonely tonight. I just want to put Aleister back on the shelf and not sleep by myself.

"I think we would have been friends. Done incredible work. Real power and real power. I can't believe I never saw it before. The likeness."

I want nothing more to punch him. His voice goes in and out as I stare at the book cover. The pages are sticking together. They're going to have that weird rippling affect once they dry. That famous image of him on the cover, hands to his chin, is becoming warped. The room is becoming warped. I finish my drink. Preston's mispronuncing "Aiwass" as he muses over what movie he wants to watch once we get back to my place. "Movie". Yeah right. Whatever stops Preston being continuously wrong.

I just want to stumble back home to black out.

This isn’t a regular Friday blackout.

My apartment floor is rocking back and fourth like a ship caught in a storm. My left cheek is pressed into the rug as I hang on to it, pressing a floral pattern in my face. With a deep breath I turn my head. My boyfriend is laying diagonally across my bed, snoring. He didn’t even have the energy to take his shoes off. They dangle off the edge of the bed, laces hanging like spider legs. I fumble to find my phone in the dark. I feel the velvet of my dress brush against my hand. I’m also fully dressed. My memory surfaces from its cocktail waterboarding, and I remember why I’m not on the bed. It’s on purpose. I know he said something in the elevator when I was just trying to get him upstairs. It was cocky and cruel. I’d rather sleep on my unvaccumed studio floor then be anywhere Preston right now. Through the gin goggles I see the white armchair that sits in the corner of my apartment. A hand me down from my mother. Whether the day was good or bad, it’s soft fabric and squishy cushions always embrace me. I practically lived in it, nested comfortably doing homework or reading scripts. I army crawl towards it. Once I’m in it I know I’ll be out. I’ll sleep this off and then tomorrow we’ll have it out. Or we won’t. At least I’ll be sober. Im almost to the chair when I have to stop and rest. I want nothing more to take my dress off. But I’m in it for the night. I can’t find the zipper. Battling the dark and the alcohol induced spinning, no way I’m gonna find it. I start my final haul when I immediately have to stop again.

It's not from the booze. Somethings different. Something in the chair A little old man sits in my chair Smiling. Watching.

The rest of the night I lay in my own sweat, having nightmares.

Huge creatures stomp into my building. Leopards. Wolves. Fox twice the normal size. They tear up my floor and eat my clothing. They carry me down the Schuylkill River on a barge entwined with flowers. People dance on the banks as we go by. The little old man drives us further and further away from the city. He covers me with a red cloak. His arms are dotted with needle marks. I hear the beating of wings in the distance. It approaches. The old man rests his chin on both his hands. He smiles at me.

Then with a wink, I see sunlight.

I hear Preston's phone going off somewhere in the apartment. I hear him get up and fumble around. I lay still. My back is contorted from a night on the floor. He steps over me to get his jacket. He's whispering into the phone as he collects his stuff. In the stillness of the morning, I hear a woman's voice on the other end. He kneels down to pat my head. He's gone. He doesn't even check to see if I'm alright before he shuts the door. The chair is empty again.

The next few months Preston buys more books. I don't know if he reads them.

He brags about applying for the local OTO. He never actually does it. He never attends a meeting. He takes about seeing shadows and spirits. I smell incense on his clothes when we have class together, or maybe its strong weed. He presses me about ritual, inviting things into your body. If I've ever sacrificed anything. If sex magick truly worked. He wanted to be in competition with me. He tried to push me into stupid games. But it was a game I didn't want to play. It was a path too dark for me to go down. Magic can't be about who wins or loses. Spirits shouldn't be taunted. Preston didn't understand that. He didn't want to be better. He didn't want to know more about himself, or what was beyond him. He wanted to talk about doing things, and not actually do them. He was too cowardly to look beneath the surface. Feigning interest in Aleister Crowley was just an excuse to do more coke. There was nothing genuine in his pursuit. There was nothing genuine about him at all. I began to see that. It was around that time that we began fall apart.

Before I left him he took Aleister's biography off my shelf. I never got it back.

I never told him about the dream.

I never mention the little old man.

I moved out of that apartment two years later. I bought more books, with more faces to add to my shelves. My fluffy armchair moved from my bedroom to my living room. I've never had a living room before. When I come home at night, the moonlight hits it perfectly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I wander if I see him. Sat there, watching me go by.

I can't imagine why he's there, why he chose to take a seat that night.

Maybe he was bored.

Maybe he was floating around the area

Maybe he can't resist watching two drunk idiots drag themselves on the floor to his memory.

I doubt he was feeling domestic.

I don't give him too much attention, like a drunk relative.

For all I know he's there each night doing God know what.