Mason Queensbury in the Parlour of the Occult Read online

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  When Queensbury awoke, the stinking sweet smell of far eastern incense nearly choked his nostrils. His eyes were covered, and he was bound in a chair with his hands firmly tied behind his back.

  “When will it be time, Eddy?” Mason immediately recognized the voice of Charles, the fair-haired sissy. “I’m getting damned sleepy for this sort of misadventure. Shouldn’t we raise this demon in the morning, after breakfast?”

  “Silence, you fool,” said Crowley. “The preparations are nearly complete, and the ceremony must be done tonight, during the Arsonist’s Moon. If you can’t stay awake long enough to witness man conquering the physical world with naught but mind and will, then to hell with you!”

  “No need to get all bent out of shape, Eddy,” snuffled Charles, chastened.

  “I think Sir Mason is waking up,” sounded the distinctive English-Asiatic accent of the world-traveler Kipling. “I hope those knots hold, Houdini.”

  “They’ll hold,” said the flat, honky voice of the American escape artist, Houdini. “No man can escape one of my knots but me. But I still want assurances that this man will not be seriously harmed.”

  “Of course not,” said Crowley. “Mason Queensbury is a national treasure, and how dreadfully dull would Sundays be without a new adventure of his to read in the paper? No, we shan’t kill him. Your kind is so paranoid.”

  “Where is Pup-pup?” Queensbury’s tenor voice nearly exploded out of him, deep and fierce like the growl of a tiger. “Where are we now? This place smells like the den of a Nepalese whore.” The stale air stank of exotic incense and perfume that had built up and mixed together over time.

  “Your valet is imprisoned elsewhere on the estate. We couldn’t have him interfere,” said Crowley. “As for where you are,” and with a flourish, Crowley slipped the blindfold off of Queensbury’s head.

  The Great White Lord looked about him. They were in a high-ceilinged basement, with great stone archways creating a cavernous space. The edges of the huge room were decorated with more grotesque idols, similar to those tokens Queensbury had seen upstairs but even more hideous, often with great oversized genitals.

  The space was lit by hundreds of candles, placed about in bronze candelabras of assorted shapes - an eclectic collection.

  Queensbury was tied to a chair about three yards away from a design, painted on the stone ground in red, of a five pointed star inside of a circle. At the design’s center, a ceramic dish held some kind of smoldering powder that gave off a blue smoke.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said Houdini. “I won’t let them harm you.”

  “What about the demon they’re about to raise? What will you do to prevent that abomination from harming me?”

  “There will be no abomination, that is the whole point,” said the American. “Crowley and his friends will perform their little ceremony and then nothing will happen. Demons do not exist.”

  “You are a fool, Houdini,” said the honorable Englishman. “To think that disbelief offers you protection from demons? I tell you, I am not a braggart. I have seen things, fought things, that no science can explain. But even greater fools are the rest of you!” The noble Knight raised his voice, directing it at the entire group. “You cannot control these dark forces. They come to our reality not to serve us, but to devour!”

  “Sir Mason, I have done a great deal of reading and hands-on experimentation, applying the scientific method in the field of Demonology. I think I know a great deal more about the subject than you do,” sighed Crowley. “You sound like a Luddite warning against the dangers of the mechanical loom, or, more recently, the steam engine. Sure, a steam engine is dangerous, and men die every year in accidents related to them, but if we had not embraced them, our society would never have become as great as it is. Imagine all the good that could be done by harnessing the power of demons. Immortal, timeless creatures, forgotten by humanity long ago except for images on the edges of our racial memory. Hidden from the world, sleeping. Older than mankind itself. Imagine what such a creature has seen. Imagine the experiences, the sensations it can show us. Imagine what a man with a demon under his control, an educated and refined man like myself, could accomplish, the enemies he could vanquish, the power he could achieve!”

  “Surely you can’t compare demonic conjuration to a mere technology?”

  “Uh, with all due respect, Sir Mason, I’m quite certain that’s exactly what I just did. I drew a direct analogy.”

  “You are just a boy, playing at evil, but if you go through with this, the consequences will be very real.”

  “I am not a boy! I am just the young incarnation of my future self, greatest Briton to ever live. Once I have this demon under my thumb, my rise will be meteoric. Within fifteen years, I shall be Prime Minister. Perhaps I shall even marry the widowed Queen and become King,” said Crowley, his sunken eyes dancing with visions of future glory.

  “Mind your tongue, you blackguard! Fair Queen Victoria would never consort with the likes of you. I will punch you right in your pasty, ugly face for your disrespect!” Queensbury’s limbs strained against their restraints in his fury. The chair and ropes creaked and groaned audibly.

  Aleister pouted. “I had hoped you would see the wisdom of my actions and join the Order of the Golden Dawn. We could've been friends and gone riding together, and story-telling over tea, and experiments at the very edge of human experience! But after you insult me like that?” Crowley took a step back. “No, you are upset right now, I shall ignore your comments. You'll sing a different tune in a few moments. I'll have your respect yet, My Lord.”

  Queensbury looked around the room. Kipling wrote furiously in his lambskin notebook, his brow furrowed with concentration. Houdini's posture showed that he was a man who is sure he is in no danger, as though viewing these events through the lens of a telescope. His face, however? Houdini's face could not help but betray that he was deeply troubled by these events. Charles Marchant and Nigel Bottomfellow had apparently switched from brandy to wine and were more than a few glasses deep. Marchant sipped his wine with a smile on his face; apparently, Queensbury’s verbal sparring with Crowley had cured him of his oft-spoken-of boredom. Bottomfellow, alone amongst the group, looked afraid.

  Queensbury struggled and strained at his bonds until veins popped out on his neck, but he realized that Houdini was not merely boasting when he spoke of his prowess with knots. There was no way to break free, even for a man of Queensbury's great genetic advantages, bred of heroes and tempered by adventure, who had broken free from countless deathtraps.

  Everyone’s attention shifted when a slow booming sounded down from the stairwell. From the dark doorway, Xtotl appeared, his neck swollen and purple. With his giant hands in asbestos gloves, he was carrying a black cauldron filled with a bubbling, steaming liquid.

  “How’s your voicebox doing, you overgrown bastard?” called Queensbury, laughing.

  Xtotl tried to speak, but grimaced when he was rewarded with nothing but pain for his effort. His features distorted with rage and he started to advance on Queensbury.

  “Stop, you fool!” shouted Crowley. “The contents of that cauldron have taken years to assemble and cost many times the price I could place on your very life. It contains, among other things, the crushed bones of a dinosaur, the venom of a cobra, the placenta of a prince born of incest, and now it will contain the blood of a noble man of action, killer of beast and man. Be careful with it, you brute!”

  Xtotl, rebuked, lowered his head and carried the cauldron over to a small table sitting next to the bound Lord Queensbury. He gently set down the steaming, evil pot, while giving Sir Mason a resentful glare. Queensbury did not blink, but kept looking right back into the white eyes of the black man.

  “The hour is at hand,” said Crowley, as he reached up with his left hand to untie his cravat. “The world shall never be the same after tonight. Please, everyone. Remove your clothing.”

  “What?” asked Kipling, shocked. “Wh
at purpose does that serve?”

  “I have spent years learning this ceremony, my dear Rudyard. Do you not think I have thought of everything? Clothing may cause offense to the demon.”

  With minimal grumbling, all present company removed their clothes. Charles and Nigel giggled and pointed. Queensbury noted that Houdini was built like a champion athlete, though small of stature. Only Kipling seemed a bit embarrassed, being the oldest and softest man here. Crowley, for his part, was white as a tooth, and almost impossibly thin while still lithe and agile with youth.

  Even Xtotl disrobed, revealing a body covered in both strange tattoos and horrible-looking scars as from a burn, leaving the scarred areas of his body a milky white which contrasted sharply with the deep black of his natural ebon skin.

  When that was done, Crowley produced a long, thin, silver dagger from a velvet case resting on the nearest column.

  “Do you see this dagger, Sir Queensbury? It belonged to Emperor Julian of Rome, the last pagan Emperor. He sacrificed over a thousand cows with this dagger alone, and he was undefeated in battle his entire life as a result of the demonic power his sacrifices accorded him.”

  “But you'll note he died young nonetheless,” said the captured Lord. “Probably killed by the very demons he thought served him.”

  “He was assassinated by Christians in his midst!” cried Crowley. He returned his attention to the dagger. “This dagger was a relic even when Julian used it. Some say, and he believed, that this dagger is the very one given to Abraham by God to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac.”

  “You speak sacrilege,” said Sir Mason.

  “I rarely speak anything else,” said Crowley with a sly smile as he used the ancient knife to cut through Queensbury's clothes.

  “You couldn't have stripped me without ruining my suit? That's Saville Row!”

  “My apologies, my Lord, but I'm sure you will forgive me after you see my ceremony complete. Oh, we shall be great friends, I am sure of it.”

  With that, the thin pale Crowley cut a gash down the length of Queensbury's forearm, tied firmly in place behind Queensbury's back.

  “Damn and blast! You could at least give a fellow a warning,” said Mason as blood dripped down his arm into a glass bowl.

  “Don't worry, my Lord. I don't need much.”

  Crowley removed the bowl and poured its crimson payload into the bubbling cauldron. The cauldron's contents began to change colour, shifting from red to black to purple to green, ever-shifting, and began to glow.

  “Good God,” said Kipling. “Do you all see that? It's producing light!”

  “One might create this effect with an electric light bulb placed on the inside of the cauldron, or by certain chemical reactions,” offered the American, Houdini, his scientific mind whirling to explain all that he saw as mere illusion such as he himself might create.

  “His concoctions have never done this before,” offered Charles, delighted.

  “You will all regret this. I warn you!” shouted Queensbury. “It is not too late to turn back.”

  “Oh, I'm afraid it is.” said Crowley as he pulled the asbestos gloves onto his own hands. He bent down and lifted the cauldron himself, showing deceptive strength in his rail-thin frame. “My time is at hand.”

  Crowley slowly walked over to the pentagram inscribed on the floor. Careful not to splash the hot liquid onto his naked skin, he began to pour the vile, glowing swill in a circle around the five pointed star.

  “Oh great demon, we beseech you. From your slumber, we release you. To our realm full of lives to take, we who command you, call now: Awake!”

  Crowley tossed aside the cauldron and the gloves and stood, naked, in the pentagon, arms outstretched. The circle of liquid on the floor continued to glow and spew smoke. Wind, born from nowhere, began to whip this way and that throughout the cavernous cellar, sending the discarded clothing flying through the air.

  “I must admit, I am impressed by the production values. Crowley must have some theatrical training. I don't know how he's managing all of this,” said Houdini, quietly, to Kipling.

  “Hush, Harry. I must see what happens.”

  “But nothing will happen. It is all a show.”

  “This is no show, you fools!” shouted Queensbury. “Untie me!”

  The entire circle beneath Crowley's feet began to glow, the stone floor turning a deep red, as though superheated.

  “Good lord, Eddy, your feet!” cried Charles.

  Steam rose from Crowley's feet as he grimaced in pain. “This is blasted hot, but I must stay in the circle to win the demon's allegiance!”

  The smell of burnt skin filled the air, whipped back and forth by the magical winds. The smell was sickening.

  Tears ran down Crowley's face. “The pain! It is unbearable!”

  Nigel moved towards Crowley to help, but Aleister held up his hands, palms outward. “No! Stay back! Do not break the circle.”

  Queensbury turned his head and watched Xtotl. The smell of burning flesh was clearly bringing back memories for the poor scarred giant. Tears ran down his face onto his great purple swollen throat. His eyes were not even focused on his master, Crowley, but seemed to be looking back through time to whatever horrible experience had left him with the scars that covered his massive body.

  Small wisps of flame appeared around Crowley's horribly burned feet. His flesh was turning black. Sweat ran down his entire body as he grimaced, eyes closed, chanting softly to himself, no doubt using one of his “esoteric” methods to ignore the pain.

  “Xtotl! Xtotl, your master is burning!” shouted Queensbury. “He is burning alive! Help him!”

  Xtotl cried out and ran to Crowley.

  “No, Xtotl! Stay back!” cried the thin pale occultist. But it was too late! Xtotl picked up the pale man in his arms and pulled him free of the diabolical symbol.

  “No!” cried Crowley. “You've broken the circle, you fool!”

  “He's just saved your life, Crowley! You're the fool!” said Queensbury.

  Xtotl held Crowley in his arms like a suckling babe, looking with a worried expression at the state of Crowley's feet, charred and ruined.

  The glowing circle grew brighter still. The stone floor began to melt, turning from stone into liquid hot magma.

  “Dear God. Harry, how can this be an illusion?” asked Kipling.

  “I don't know. I've never seen a trick like this one,” said Houdini.

  The circle of magma fell away, leaving a black hole in the stone floor. Wind rushed towards the hole, as though the entire cellar were a balloon which had sprung a leak.

  “Do you see that, disbelievers? It is a gateway to another realm!” shouted the thin, pale lad Crowley. “Ha ha! Despite all the whispered insults, I was right! I've done it. Arise, demon! Arise and meet your master!”

  A hand, or perhaps it would be more accurate to describe it as a claw, reached through the hole from beneath and grabbed hold of the stone floor outside of the circle (which remained quite solid despite its close encounter with molten lava). The claw, twice the size of any normal man's hand, dug into the stone as though it were butter.

  Another great hand-claw came through and clutched the other side of the circle.

  “It's true,” said Houdini, voice hushed as all colour ran from his face. “I was wrong.”

  The Thing pulled itself through the circle, barely squeezing through the opening. It was shaped roughly like a man, but huge. Great bat-like wings extended from its back. It had four arms instead of two, and four eyes arranged in a diamond shape on its hideous, inhuman face. Each eye glowed with a colour unlike anything any man there had ever seen before. Its mouth appeared to be on sideways, and great razor-like teeth were visible even in repose.

  Its skin appeared to be made of a shiny metal, divided up into scales, but with a layer of luminescent slime atop the metallic growths.

  It stretched its wings and arms, showing a wingspan of nearly twenty feet. One wing nearly brushed Queensbury's
head, and he had to duck to avoid it. A gob of slime fell from the wing and struck Mason's shoulder. It smelled of brimstone and rotten meat.

  The slimy creature rolled its head back and forth, creating a sickly cracking sound like a roasted chicken being torn apart by hand. The beast must have weighed at least thirty stone. All the men present instinctively stepped back from it, even Xtotl. Only Queensbury, still tied naked to a chair, did not move.

  “Carry me forward, Xtotl, you idiot,” said Crowley to Xtotl. “Present me!”

  Xtotl, trembling with fear, stepped forward, holding Crowley.

  “Greetings, Lord Demon. Welcome to our realm. I am the one who has summoned you here. I am your new master. My name is Aleister Crowley.”

  The demon's horrific, sideways maw reshaped itself into something that suggested a smile. Then a low-pitched, rhythmic sound began to sound from deep in its belly. Queensbury thought it sounded like laughter.

  Then it spoke.

  “Aleister Crowley. I am your new master.” The voice was like nothing any of them had ever heard. It made the skin crawl.

  “I believe it's mimicking me,” said Crowley. “No, demon. I am Aleister Crowley. You are my slave.”

  “No.” said the Monster. “You. Aleister Crowley. You are my slave.”

  “I told you, you fool, you cannot control these dark forces!” said Queensbury. “We must kill the demon. Release me!”

  “No,” muttered Crowley. “I did everything right. This must be your fault, Xtotl! You broke the circle!” Xtotl, eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the evil beast, now shrank with shame when chastised by his master.

  “What good will this demon be if he can't even follow orders?” said Charles, laughing. “No better than my Irish chauffeur, is he?”

  With that the Beast leapt from the circle and seized hold of Charles. With one bite, the beast clamped down on Charles's head and split it wide open.

  Charles screamed, briefly, before the thing tore him completely in half with his four powerful arms.

  “No! Stop, demon! I command you!” shouted Aleister, impotently, as Xtotl carried him across the room towards the stairs.

  Nigel erupted into tears and fell to his knees. As he watched the beast devour his lover, scarfing down entire limbs in a single bite, Nigel seemed to lose any awareness of where he was.

  Rudyard Kipling and Harry Houdini ran from the demon towards the wall. From his discarded jacket, lying on the floor where the wind had deposited it, Kipling produced a pistol.

  “Wait!” shouted Queensbury. “Come back here, you cowards, and untie me!”

  Houdini, did, indeed, stop, but could not seem to bring himself to come any closer to the demon, so overcome by fear was he.

  The beast, licking the blood from his monstrous face with a long, green tongue that must've been two feet long and six inches thick, turned his attention to Nigel.

  “Stop, demon! For God's sake, Nigel, move! Run away!” shouted Crowley from his prone position on the side of the room.

  Nigel, however, simply stared in awe at the horrific beast as it strolled over to him. It sniffed Nigel's hair, taking in the scent as though considering what to eat off the hors d'oeuvre table. Nigel never moved. He no longer had it in him to take even the most basic steps towards self-preservation.

  The demon reached down with his left hand and tore Nigel's head clean off, leaving his body to spurt blood from the neckhole before it collapsed to its side, shaking as though having a seizure.

  Crowley shouted for Xtotl. “Xtotl. Put me down and stop that demon! Kill it!”

  Xtotl looked startled to be suddenly the center attention, caught staring in awe at the slaughter in front of him. Tears ran down his cheeks. Now he just looked at Crowley, dumbfounded. He started to shake his head back and forth. “No....,” his deep voice grumbled, nearly inaudibly.

  “God damn it, you imbecilic Black!” screamed Crowley from the floor. “Kill that demon, Xtotl, or I shall burn you again!”

  Xtotl, afraid as he was of the unthinkable behemoth before him, was apparently even more afraid of his white master and of the flame. After gently placing Crowley on the floor, the black giant turned ran at the demon. He was nearly as large as the horrible creature. The beast was not paying attention and Xtotl's first blow, a huge punch to the back of the demon's head, knocked the abomination back a few feet.

  The demon turned to view its new opponent. Xtotl struck the fighting pose of his people, one foot forward and both hands raised shoulder height, ready for the slimy thing's counterattack.

  It smiled again. “No better than my Irish chauffeur,” it said in its inhuman baritone.

  With a quick turn, the monster thrust out its right wing. The wing's tip possessed what looked like a finger and a thumb, which grabbed hold of Xtotl's ankle and pulled the black giant's feet out from under him. Then the beast leapt atop the servant and began assaulting him with tooth and claw.

  A shot rang out. Kipling, revolver drawn, fired repeatedly at the demonic thing. The Englishman was a crack shot, but the bullets seemed to simply bounce off of this invincible foe.

  Queensbury struggled against his expertly tied knots. “Damn you, Houdini, help me!” The great explorer looked over at Houdini, who cowered on the opposite side of the demon, who still struggled to finish off the black man Xtotl. The Black manservant was gravely wounded but refused to let go of the demon.

  Houdini looked back. He held up his hands, crossing his wrists. Then he mimed a particular movement, twisting his wrists and pulling them apart.

  Queensbury didn't understand. What was this American doing?

  Then Houdini did it again. He pointed at Queensbury, then stuck his hands behind his back, miming Queensbury's predicament. Then he turned, and, showing Queensbury his back, he repeated the wrist-twist movement.

  Queensbury mimicked the movement. Somehow, the ropes fell away from his wrists. The American had tied some kind of trick knot, completely inescapable unless you knew the secret technique, which Houdini had just taught him across a room filled with horrific violence. Queensbury smiled at the illusionist's cleverness, then stood up.

  “Back away, Kipling! If I let Pup-pup's favourite poet die, I'll never hear the end of it.”

  Rudyard Kipling looked over at him. Mason Queensbury, hero of England, stood naked before an unspeakable monster from another world. Queensbury's shoulders were thrust back, his hands held up like a boxer's. Even nude, he was clothed in a perfect musculature and unshakable confidence. He looked like the perfect man, immaculately proportioned, as envisioned by the ancient Greeks. Though his hair and mustache were silver with age, his muscles put to shame those of any younger athlete. If he felt any fear, no man could tell.

  The demon, still struggling with Xtotl, held both his hands together and thrust them into Xtotl's chest. Then he grabbed hold of each side of the ribcage and tore open the black man's torso. His deep laughter reverberated throughout the cellar.

  Xtotl looked down at his own beating heart. A lifetime of pain and misery ended then, as his eyes went blank.

  “Back away from that Negro, demon. He may be a savage, but I will not allow you to defile this realm by eating any more human flesh.” Queensbury issued orders to this demon in the same tone of voice he would use to send Pup-pup to pick up a bespoke suit from the tailor.

  The demon stood tall and regarded the Englishman.

  The demon opened its mouth. “...you fool. I told you you cannot control these dark forces.” He repeated Queensbury's words with the lord's exact accent and inflection, in a voice dark and evil as Hell.

  “I know demons cannot be controlled. But you can be killed. And I shall kill you if you do not return to your own world immediately where you may live out your eternal life in peace as long as you never return here. That is an order. I speak with the authority of Queen Victoria of Great Britain.”

  Kipling and Houdini were astonished. Queensbury dared issue orders to this unstoppable, bullet-proof beast fr
om another world? Crowley, crawling across the floor, dragging his ruined feet, watched, breathless.

  The demon laughed once more. “No,” it said simply, before it leaped at Lord Mason.

  Mason dodged this initial attack and sprung onto the demon's back, grabbing it around its throat. The demon, seeking to free itself, flapped its wings wildly, propelling man and beast into the air, careening around the cellar.

  The action was so quick and quarrelsome it was near impossible for the eye to follow. The naked white man and the scaled thing bounced off the walls, smashing through Crowley's collections of graven idols, sending lit candelabras clattering everywhere. The demon screeched and screamed, trying to free itself from the brave man who clung to its back, one alabaster arm wrapped around its throat. Queensbury's mighty thews strained against the might of this unholy beast. His back was bruised and bloodied where he was struck again stone or brass or flame. Never before had the great lord encountered so strong an opponent!

  Kipling was watching, mouth agape with his revolver open, frozen in the act of reloading as he was overcome by awe at what he witnessed.

  Houdini looked up to see the ancient silver dagger Crowley had used to cut Queensbury, the one that had belonged to the ancient Emperor, now lying forgotten and abandoned on the floor. Ancient-looking runes like he'd never seen now shone brightly on the side of the blade, which before had been a uniform silver. Houdini, took a deep breath, then sprang out of his hiding spot and seized the dagger from the ground. He ran towards the two combatants where man and beast were still engaged in mortal struggle.

  “Erik, what are you doing?” shouted Crowley, who was now attempting to drag himself out of the cellar. The skin on his feet cracked and peeled as he crossed the stone floor, leaving blackened chunks of himself in the trail of blood behind him.

  “I must help him! He fights to save us!” replied the illusionist. “You may seek only to save yourself, but I cannot let this hero fight alone.”

  “Then you are a fool, Houdini. Aleister Crowley will survive!” With that, Crowley disappeared into the stairwell, leaving nothing but the horrid scent of burnt flesh in his wake.

  Queensbury still had the beast in a headlock, with his white body dangling down the demon's back between the thing's leathery wings. The demon flapped its wings with all his might, but could not free itself from the grasp of the mighty hunter. After its wild attempt at flight in this enclosed space, the demon fought to a standing position, balanced on a combination of its hind legs and the lower set of its four arms.

  Once it had its balance, it began to back up quickly, slamming Queensbury between its own huge body and the stone wall. Once, twice, thrice it crushed the great man, who refused to let go but was suffering great damage to himself by absorbing these hits. How long could this demon go without breath? Mason wondered as he struggled to hold on. Or did it need to breath at all? Perhaps this choke hold was achieving nothing but annoying the vile creature?

  “Lord Mason!” cried Houdini. Mason looked up to see Houdini brandishing the ancient dagger. “Catch!”

  Houdini tossed the dagger of Abraham with a gentle arc, and Mason was able to catch it with his free arm, just as the demon began backing up to slam the hero into the wall again. Mason took the dagger and pointed it at the demon's brain, then ducked out the way.

  The demon slammed into the wall, with the stone wall driving the silver dagger into the back of its head through its thick gnarled skull. There was an explosion of coloured light from the creature's strange eyes, then the thing fell to the ground, dead.

  A great wind picked up, pulling everything in the room towards the hole to the other realm. The demon's corpse dragged across the floor, leaving a trail of its luminous green blood behind him.

  “Hold on to something!” shouted Queensbury.

  The men all braced themselves against stone columns as the wind grew fiercer and fiercer. Sir Mason looked across the room at Kipling, who had his eyes closed. His lips were moving, but his voice could not pierce the veil of the wind's roar. Queensbury guessed that the man was praying.

  Xtotl's flayed body fell into the hole, as did Nigel's headless body and the few bits and pieces left of Charles, draining into the window into that ancient other world like musket-balls dumped into a washbasin.

  The great scaled body of the demon picked up speed, rolling side over side, huge leathery wings flopping about indecently until it reached the unholy portal. The demon tipped into the hole, then there was a blinding flash of light of the same mysterious colour that had shined from the thing's eyes.

  Then it was though none of it had ever happened. There was no longer a hole in the floor, only the painted pentagram. The wind was gone. The chasm had closed.