Ipswich

IPSWICH

Scott

Michael

Stenwick

For all the eyeliner abusers.

You know who you are.

CONTENTS

0. Prelude

I. Amprodias

II. Baratchial

III. Gargophias

IV. Dagdagiel

V. Hemethterith

VI. Uriens

VII. Zamradiel

VIII. Characith

IX. Temphioth

X. Yamatu

XI. Kurgasiax

00. Interlude

XII. Lafcursiax

XIII. Malkunofat

XIV. Niantiel

XV. Saksaksalim

XVI. A'ano'nin

XVII. Parfaxitas

XVIII. Tzuflifu

XIX. Qulielfi

XX. Raflifu

XXI. Shalicu

XXII. Thantifaxath

000. Epilogue

0. Prelude

I think you know why I called you here, said Alfred Gibson as a dark figure entered his office. We need to talk. The man’s voice sounded calm and commanding, matching the presence projected by his distinguished graying hair and expensive tailored suit. However, the lines on his face betrayed anxiety, even fear. As mayor of the little Massachusetts town of Ipswich he had always attended to his duties diligently, but he expected this particular obligation would prove especially unpleasant. He had been dreading the meeting all week.

Indeed we do, replied Shaun Talbot. I don’t think you’ve fully thought this through. Talbot strode nonchalantly across the richly paneled room, dropping into one of the two seats before the fine walnut desk. He set a cloth-wrapped bundle he had carried in under his arm on the other chair, with no more acknowledgement of it than an ironic smile. If he was cowed at all it did not show.

The most accurate adjective for Talbot’s overall appearance was black. Black hair, black jacket, black vest, black shirt, black pants. The cut of his suit was nearly a century out of date, as if he had stepped out of a silent film. The only pale thing about him was his skin, which had a hue that suggested he avoided sunlight at all costs.

Believe me, Shaun, I have, insisted Gibson.

The tourism dollars alone can’t be replaced. I’ve been putting on my séance here in town for ten years. You must approve my permit now.

The mayor sighed. I’m aware of the economic ramifications. But last year was a disaster. Another news story like that could ruin us all, and I won’t have it.

We already had this discussion nine months ago, protested Talbot. Anne Winchester’s death had nothing to do with the séance. It was just a tragic coincidence.

Be that as it may, she died only an hour afterwards.

Yes, but of a brain aneurysm, remember! You can’t possibly believe that I was involved.

You’re a Talbot, said Gibson flatly. I don’t know what to believe. I’ve lived here my whole life. I knew your mother, and the things she could do were uncanny, to say the least. Let's just say that if you wanted Anne Winchester dead, I suspect you could have done it without leaving a trace.

Talbot chuckled. You know, I think you just accused me of witchcraft. Let me give you some advice, Alfred – holding your very own Salem Witch Trial here in town would be a bad idea. You know the history.

You are a witch, though.

Of course, Talbot nodded. But the idea that modern witches go around killing people with spells, or with, what was the word? ‘Uncanniness?’ That's ridiculous.

Look, I’m not insinuating anything, said Gibson. "But you have to admit it’s rather strange. One of the richest women in the world attends your annual séance and an hour later she’s dead. The papers were all over it, the national news networks too. If somebody else happens to die this year, even if it’s an accident, even if it’s days after the show, even if they came to town terminally ill, it won’t matter. The story will be that Ipswich is cursed, or worse."

You’re going to sign the permit, Alfred, Talbot said coldly, ignoring the mayor’s remarks. And you’re going to do it tonight. Otherwise you and I will have a problem.

I think we already do. But it’s done. There will be no show this year.

Talbot tried another approach. You really aren’t interested in your prospects for re-election, are you? My coven has supported every winning campaign in this town, including yours, for the last century. Cancel my show, and that support disappears.

Gibson shook his head. You Talbots have had the run of the town for too long. I know that you see yourself as some kind of local ‘nobility,’ the real power behind everything that gets done here. But I’m ending it. Anne Winchester was too much.

I had nothing to do with it, repeated Talbot.

And I told you it doesn’t matter. This is about perception, not facts. Understand, I’m not canceling your permits for good. If we can just take a break this Halloween season, you can bring the séance back next year. The media attention will have died down and you’ll be able to carry on as before, at least as long as there are no more mishaps. I’m sorry, Shaun, but that’s my final word.

Then we do have a problem. But that's okay. I brought the solution. With a swift, fluid motion he picked up his bundle from the adjacent seat and unwrapped it with a showman’s flourish. The fabric pulled away to reveal a human skull, darkened with age and covered over with a scrimshaw of twisted runes and characters. As Talbot took the skull between his two hands and pointed its perpetual grin in the mayor’s direction, a soft, low vibration began to fill the room. Shaun grinned, and crooned to the skull; Take him. NOW.

As a lifelong resident of Ipswich, Gibson knew of the skull’s powers all too well. He jumped to his feet, his eyes wide. Please. Don’t! he cried. The air in the room thickened into a thoroughly unnatural mist. We can talk about this. I’m sure we can reach some sort of understanding!

Talbot smiled maliciously. Too late. He clutched the skull tighter, and as he did so the vibration in the room intensified.

Gibson sprinted for the door as the fog thickened and pulsated like a living, breathing thing. As the mayor crossed the room, the vapor gathered into a roughly human-sized clump and stopped him as his hand clutched the knob. He froze for a moment as the mist seemed to soak into his body, then turned robotically and walked back to his place behind the desk. Seating himself, his eyes stared blankly forward.

That’s better, said Talbot.

What is your command? asked Gibson, his vocal inflection now completely different than it had been moments before, heavier and tinged with sadness. The voice of the damned.

First of all, you will sign the permit for my annual séance. I already have several hundred registrations, and I’m not about to send out refunds.

The mayor’s hand picked up a pen and scrawled his signature across the paper in front of him without a moment’s hesitation.

Excellent. Now, Mayor Gibson will try to tear that form up the second he regains control, so you will need to inhabit his body for a bit. Halloween is only two weeks away, and once this year’s show is over I’ll see how I feel about releasing him. Do you understand?

Yes.

Go about your business as best you can without being detected. As long as you stay out of my way, it doesn’t matter to me what you do. Consider this your vacation from, well, wherever it is you go. Talbot bent over, picked up the cloth from where it had landed on the floor, and carefully re-wrapped the skull. He then rose to his feet, his features twisting into a self-satisfied grin. We’ll talk again in two weeks or so.

Understood, came the reply.

Chuckling to himself, Talbot tucked the skull under his arm and let himself out of the office. He strode down the long corridor leading to the main exit, letting his grin widen, and stepped out into the street.

You’re giggling like an evil little overlord, said a wry voice from behind him. He turned abruptly, startled by the slim woman leaning up against the building’s brick exterior wall.

He let out a small sigh as he recognized the figure. What are you doing here, Laurel?

The woman shrugged and adjusted her dark-rimmed glasses, which seemed to blend into her shoulder-length bobbed hair under the glow of the street lights. Checking up on you, I suppose. Did it work? Did you get the permit signed? Like Talbot, she was dressed all in black. Unlike Talbot, though, her clothing seemed to reflect the practical concern of staying out of sight rather than an aesthetic choice.

Of course I did, he replied with a smirk. You could say it worked like a charm.

No problems? she asked again. Gibson survived?

I said it was a success, didn’t I? Talbot shot back, exasperation creeping into his voice. Anyway, you work for me. It’s not really your concern.

I’m just looking out for you, she said as she stepped away from the wall to stand at his side. I’m glad it went better this time.

Oh, I’ve got the hang of it now, for sure, affirmed Talbot.

What’s next, then? she asked.

Your job over the next two weeks is to come up with something truly amazing for this year’s séance, something that will have them coming back to Ipswich for years to come. Think you can handle that?

She nodded obediently. Naturally, Shaun. I’ll make you proud.

Later that evening at his home on the north side of town, Talbot gently returned the skull to the display case in which it normally resided. His permit was approved and the mayor would be too far under his control for the next several weeks to spoil anything.

Truly, he was the mightiest Talbot witch of all time. He smiled broadly at the thought. Soon, he mused, he would be mightier still.

I. Amprodias

On the magical plane the divinatory power manifests in the irrational, thus the greatest masters of Magick traffic constantly with the energies of the eleventh kala. The irrational element appears so strongly in magicians using this kala that their work has often not been taken seriously or has been altogether overlooked.

– Kenneth Grant, Nightside of Eden, 156-157.

Sara Winchester woke to the feel of cold metal through her sheer party dress. As her eyes opened, she was greeted by a throbbing, blurry image. A small room, dark and claustrophobic. Some sort of metal cot against one wall, a heavy door against another. Bars all around her. Crap, she muttered under her breath. I’m in jail. Again.

The headache was like nothing she had ever experienced, and she’d had plenty of hangovers. She pressed one hand against the steel of the cot, raising her body to a seated position, and then brought both palms up to her face. She brushed back her long blond hair and rubbed her eyes, but the bleariness remained.

Moments later, she heard a metallic clank and the sound of a door further down the corridor swinging open. This is going to be awkward, she mused as footsteps approached her cell.

I saw on the monitors that you were awake, said a familiar voice. Are you okay?

Sara sighed with relief as she recognized the officer who stepped into view as Tom Remington, one of her best and oldest friends. His relaxed demeanor was somewhat at odds with his tightly cropped brown hair and crisp uniform. Tom! she exclaimed, jumping to her feet so quickly that the room started to spin. The officer’s eyes widened as he watched her nearly fall, but at the last second she regained her balance by grabbing one of the bars tightly and holding on for dear life.

Careful! exclaimed Tom. You were really out of it when we brought you in. Are you still feeling light-headed?

What happened? she demanded, ignoring the question. How out of it was I?

You don’t know? he asked with a puzzled expression.

No, she replied, almost a whisper. I really don’t.

A concerned look came over him, but his voice remained calm. Well, what’s the last thing you remember?

It’s not another blackout, I swear! Sara insisted. I didn’t even have that much to drink. This has to be something else.

I believe you, he said gently, meeting her gaze. Just tell me what happened.

She tried to take a few deep breaths and clear her head. Her vision was no longer quite as blurry, but now she noticed a strange optical effect that seemed to permeate everything around her. The edges of objects had acquired a pale glow, similar to the aurora lights that she occasionally glimpsed in the night sky. I’m not having a stroke, am I? Let’s see. Last night I was at the big fundraiser, you know, for the Brain Aneurysm Foundation, at the mansion. I talked a little about my mother’s death, introduced our keynote speaker, Dr. Watson…

Dr. Watson? interjected Tom, a slight grin passing across his lips. Like in Sherlock Holmes?

Yeah, Sara replied, returning his smile and visibly relaxing. She knew that one of Tom’s favorite authors was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’ll bet the poor guy’s heard that joke just short of a million times. It’s like that old ‘Remington and Winchester’ gag everyone was so fond of back in high school with the two of us. Anyway, I listened to his speech, mingled for a while, and needed a break. So I headed for the observation tower, and ran into Daniel and a couple of his buddies on the way there.

I guess you rich kids get invited to all the fundraisers, don’t you? Tom said wryly.

Don’t be like that. I did invite you, two months ago. You said you had to work. I even suggested you could tell the Chief you were working security and offered to back you up, but no dice. I wanted you to come. You’re the one who said no.

He nodded, resting his hand on hers through the bar. I know. That wasn’t directed at you. Guys like Daniel, though… It must be rough being the heir to one of the biggest pharmaceutical fortunes in California.

Something suddenly clicked into place. Oh my God! exclaimed Sara. Pharmaceuticals. What the hell did I do to myself?

What do you mean?

She sighed, crestfallen. Daniel had this stuff. He said it was a new experimental drug, some kind of cognitive enhancer that his father’s company was developing, and that I had to try it because it was so awesome.

Was it a controlled substance?

Well, I don’t think so if it’s what he said it was, she replied. But for all I know he was lying. It also might have been spiked with something else. All I remember is taking some and at that point my memory went completely blank. Then I woke up here. What did I do? Please tell me.

We picked you up driving out of town, toward Sacramento. I had you and the car brought back here because it’s the closest station to your house.

Why would I do that?

Tom shook his head. "I really have no idea. You seemed pretty confused, though, like you were on something. I just figured with all the partying you’ve been doing lately…"

I know, she said ruefully. So I guess this is all written down in a report somewhere.

Not yet, he answered. I was the officer in charge on the scene. I guess it was a good thing that I had to work after all, because you needed some calming down. In the state you were in, I doubt you would have responded positively to a stranger.

I’m so sorry, she said faintly.

Hey, he said with a warm smile. You clearly weren’t in your right mind. Daniel should have known better than to pass around experimental drugs at a party. I’d talk to him in an official capacity, as a matter of fact, but you know…

She nodded. His family would have a team of lawyers in here before you could even charge him.

That’s about it, Tom agreed. At any rate, if nothing else my fellow officers were pretty taken with the idea of impounding a Veyron. I’m probably the only one here who’s been near it, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen it on the road.

Sara’s brow furrowed. "Wait… what? I was driving the Veyron?"

Tom nodded. I drove it back here, as a matter of fact. It’s an amazing car, though for what it costs I suppose it would have to be.

That’s not possible, she said flatly.

Well, it happened, even if you don’t remember it. The car’s outside in the impound lot.

But that’s my mother’s car – I mean, it was. I drive a Tesla. You know that. Nobody drives the Veyron anymore. It’s been sitting in the garage since she died.

Honestly, I just figured you’d taken it out for a joyride. It’s not like your Tesla goes over two hundred miles an hour.

But… she shook her head. What the hell was I thinking?

No idea, said Tom. I’m just glad nobody was hurt. You know, my heart totally sank when I was out on patrol and saw that car zip by. I recognized it was yours right away, and I’m well aware that it can outrun anything the department has.

But I didn’t?

No. You led us on a bit of a chase, but nowhere near what you could have.

That’s at least something, then.

So how are you feeling now? he asked. You looked like you were dizzy for a minute there when you got up.

I was, she said with a nod. I think I’m mostly better now. The headache’s manageable, and I don’t feel like there’s anything weird in my system. But my vision is still kind of odd.

How do you mean?

Sara thought for a moment, trying to find the best words to explain the effect. It’s a like the trails you get from hallucinogens, but more stable, she said finally. If I hold my mind the right way everything around me looks like it has some sort of aura. I suppose it could be an impending migraine, but my headache isn’t that bad and the aura isn’t going away or changing into anything else. Not only that, but when I look directly at anything the effect disappears. Do you think it’s some sort of drug reaction?

Maybe, he admitted. It’s hard to say without knowing what you took.

Did you run a toxicology screen?

I’m not supposed to.

A smile crept across her face. That’s not what I asked. Did you?

Of course, he replied with a sly grin. I was worried about you. You did give me permission after the last time, even if it doesn’t officially count.

That I did, she agreed. Maybe it’ll tell both of us what Daniel’s new drug is. I’m so going to have it out with that jerk the minute I get home. Speaking of which, is there any chance I can get out soon? It’s not like you don’t know where I live.

Tom chuckled. Sure, you can go once you’re feeling up to it. You’ll have to post bail and show up in court in a few weeks on the reckless driving charge, but other than that there’s no reason we need to keep you locked up.

Thank you, she said with a warm smile.

Tom fitted a key into the lock and pulled the door open. Sara gave him a long, lingering hug and then followed him out of the cell block into the station. After picking up all of her personal effects, she accompanied him back to his desk.

You’re sure you’re okay? he asked once more.

I think so. My vision’s still a little funny but I’m getting better at ignoring it by the minute. You could check in with me later.

I’ll be off tonight. I should be able to give you a call.

Come by the house instead, she offered. Please. Whenever you finish up here is fine – I’ll be in all night. I would really enjoy spending an evening with somebody I actually like instead of all the rich assholes who showed up last night to network and make the social scene.

I will, he agreed. Kind of funny though, hearing that from, what number were you again? Twenty-five on the Forbes 400?

Probably more like twenty-three this year, with how Winchester stock has been doing the last couple of months. But you know I don’t care about that.

Class traitor! he teased with a mischievous grin.

She laughed. Don’t you know it!

I’ll see you tonight, he said, returning her wide smile. And you’re taking the car back, right? I’d hate to think of the impound lot putting a hundred thousand dollar scratch on it or something.

Of course, she answered, as she turned and headed for the side exit.

The impound lot was just across the street from the station. With the surrounding high fence of tempered steel, she mused that it could just as easily pass for one of those secure parking facilities that condominium developments were always touting as selling points. While her environmental sensibilities meant that driving a vehicle with the Veyron’s horrible mileage was right out, it was also true that the high-performance automobile was worth over a million dollars. Where could she realistically park it without worrying about it being damaged in some trivial way that could prove incredibly expensive to repair? For all the facile talk amongst lifestyle coaches, there was truth to the notion of the very wealthy being owned by their possessions.

After filling out the paperwork and paying the impound fee, Sara stared at the set of keys she was handed, confused once more. The keychain was her mother’s, and it had hung on its designated hook in the butler’s pantry for almost a year. She knew it made sense that she would have used it to drive the Veyron, since as far as she knew it held the only key to the car, but she was surprised that she had not just removed it from her mother’s ring and added it to her own. Tom said that she had not been in her right mind, but even so, something still seemed unsettling about the situation.

She clicked the remote. The black and red Bugatti Veyron, less a car and more a drivable work of art, replied with a chirp and flash of its running lights. Its sleek lines reminded her of a panther getting ready to pounce, and while she imagined that its acceleration would be equally quick she had never actually driven it. At least, not that I remember, she amended to herself. Her mother had bought the car because she hated flying up and down the coast, and on a clear road with no police around it was faster than many small planes.

Sliding into the car’s cockpit felt even more alien than handling the remote. She had to hunt around the dashboard for several of the controls. Her own electric Tesla roadster was built using completely different technology and was not operated the same way. She turned the key firmly, and the huge engine thundered to life. As she put the transmission in gear, she could almost feel the gas tank emptying by the second.

What was I doing driving this beast? Sara wondered. As she pulled out onto the street and headed for Interstate 880 out of downtown San Jose, she sensed no familiarity with the Veyron’s handling or behavior. She found that it accelerated unbelievably fast, even compared to the instantaneous torque of the Tesla’s electric motor, but then it felt hopelessly sluggish cruising along at the freeway’s speed limit. She could tell this car wanted to move. She felt sure, deep in her bones, that she had no recollection of driving it. And yet she had.

She followed Interstate 880 to the cloverleaf, took the exit for West Stevens Creek Boulevard, and then turned left on Winchester Boulevard a few moments later. She had always found it amusing that she lived on a street that was named after her, or at least her family. The road led straight to the Winchester Mansion, her home and a San Jose landmark for nearly a hundred years. She looked forward to putting the Veyron back where it belonged and getting some rest, but as the sprawling house came into view her eyes widened and she quickly pulled over to the side of the road.

The entire mansion was on fire.

She brought her hand reflexively to her ear, realized she was not wearing her Bluetooth earpiece, and then dug frantically through her handbag for her smartphone. She pulled the device out, and looked back at the house.

The flames were gone.

Sara carefully stared at the outline of the mansion in front of her. She found that by shifting her attention one way the burning walls came back into view, but she realized that they were not actually burning. What radiated from them glowed like liquid light, and the hue was all wrong for natural fire – even though whatever it was played along the structure in a similar manner. She then stared at the building directly and the strange luminance disappeared.

Another damn hallucination. When I’m done having this stroke, I'm totally going to kill Daniel. She pulled the car back onto the street, drove the last few hundred yards, and turned into the mansion’s long driveway.

Once the Veyron was safely parked in its locked stall, she walked into the kitchen and hung her mother’s keys back on their proper hook. She then wandered down the winding corridors and through several galleries to the front living room of the house. The place was built like a gigantic maze, and while she had loved growing up exploring its hallways, secret passages, and myriad small rooms, sometimes she felt like a scooter would make it easier to get around. Like a Segway or something. With the right tires it wouldn’t even damage the parquet floors.

She collapsed onto the living room’s ornate leather sofa and pressed the annunciator button on the end table next to her, part of the original intercom system that still ran throughout the house. A few minutes later Susan, the head of her household staff, emerged from the corridor leading into the formal ballroom. It’s good to have you back, Ms. Winchester, said the older woman with a cordial smile. I called the police station once we realized that you hadn’t come home last night or left a message. They said you were in custody. I hope it’s nothing serious.

Fortunately, no. Not legally serious, anyway, she added. Now let’s see – I’m going to call up Daniel Prescott and yell at him, then retire to the observation tower and take a nap. I’m just exhausted. Tom Remington will be stopping by sometime this evening, so I would like you to ring me when he arrives and then bring him up. And bring up a bottle of the 1918 Bordeaux from the cellar.

The 1918? Are you sure?

Yes. And thanks for checking. I know we don’t have that many of them left, but it’s my all-time favorite and tonight I really could use a glass of amazing wine.

Very well. Is there anything else?

No, that’s it. How is the cleanup coming from the benefit? I’m sorry I haven’t been around today to help, but with everything that’s happened…

It’s going fine. You don’t need to help, you know. You’re our employer. You’ll be happy to know that the donation figures for the foundation were outstanding. I spoke with the director this morning and he was very pleased.

Sara nodded. That’s good to hear. If better medical research means nobody has to go through anything like this last year, it’ll be well worth it.

It certainly will be. The loss of your mother affected us all.

Sara rose to her feet, pulling herself out of the sofa by sheer force of will. I’m heading up. Until Tom gets here, I don’t want to be disturbed.

Very well, Ms. Winchester.

Sara walked across the front living room, through another long gallery, and then over to the observation tower elevator. Riding it up to the seventh floor, she stepped out into her favorite room in the entire mansion. The tower was thirteen feet square and lined with windows that allowed her to see the city of San Jose in all directions. An open-air walkway, accessed by a large sliding glass door, surrounded the entire level. It was one of the newest parts of the house, built in the late 1920’s to replace the original tower that collapsed during the great earthquake of 1906. Her great-great-grandmother Sarah had been superstitious about repairing damaged portions of the house, so it had fallen to her great-grandfather to restore those sections after Sarah’s death in 1922.

Among other things, the tower had been built with electricity in mind and a number of its clever original features still worked. As Sara entered the room, she pressed one of the brass switches on the panel above the elevator call button. All of the windows slid open simultaneously with a quiet hum, admitting the cool breezes that blew in from the bay. She took a deep breath, calming herself as best she could, and then crossed the room to her favorite reclining chair. She sat down, took in the scenery for a moment, and dialed Daniel Prescott on her smartphone.

Hey, Sara! said a chipper voice on the other end of the line. How’s it going?

Daniel, you are so dead, she said coldly.

What? What did I do?

What was that shit you gave me last night at the benefit?

Hey, calm down! he said defensively. There’s nobody with you, right?

Maybe there is, answered Sara, her voice becoming angrier. Maybe Susan is standing right next to me. So what? You’re going to tell me anyway. What does that stuff do?

It’s a cognitive enhancer, he replied. It also gives you kind of a nice buzz. But what happened? Did you have a reaction to it or something?

I’ll say. What did I do last night? I woke up in jail this morning and don’t remember a thing about how I got there.

Well, how much did you have to drink? I mean, the rest of my friends and I have all taken it. None of us have forgotten anything. It’s supposed to make you think and remember better, and it’s worked for all of us.

"I had one glass of wine