Twelve figures clad in red stared down at the object placed within the center of the sanguine pentagram inscribed onto the wood flooring of the candle-lit room. Though their faces were hidden by the hoods they wore, their body language clearly indicated trepidation and a hint of anticipation.
“Jerry, are the hoods really necessary?” one of the figures said.
The accused pulled back his hood, just so the rest could see him roll his eyes. “It’s about the ambiance. The book said the summoning will work better, and I quote, ‘if the site is more aligned with the domain of the demon in question.’ So yes, I’m pretty sure a demon of ‘ancient secrets and foul deeds’ prefers mood lighting and not having to see your ugly face, Mark.”
There were stifled chuckles and an obscured frown in response, along with someone muttering about Jerry’s foul character, lack of hair on his head, and his aging body.
One figure fidgeted nervously, trying, and failing, to remain unnoticed.
“Hey, Greg. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now,” a woman said, elbowing the unfortunate Greg in question.
Greg, the college dropout, the unfortunate young man who joined a cult- ahem, group of like-minded individuals with a passion for the mystical and mysterious, rather than return to his parents in defeat. That Greg.
Everyone knew he was just here to crash on their couch while he “found himself,” (read: until his parents dragged his sorry ass back home.) But they didn’t mind, as long as he participated in their group activities. No, not those, they had corrected a concerned Greg.
The rituals. Demonic summonings. Sacrifices to underworld deities. Those activities.
It was all very legal, they assured him. No one was being sacrificed, that would be murder. All of their ingredients, reagents, and non-sapient beings are sourced ethically and legally. They purchased their cloaks from an online Halloween retailer. The blood they bought off a local farmer. There might have been a bit of nepotism involved with the candles, as they came from Lucy’s shop that she ran just down the street. Though, she didn't charge the group, so that canceled out.
No, what worried Greg was what Jerry had said earlier in the week.
---
“I’m sorry, did you say explode?”
“Yup.”
Greg simply stared at Jerry, a mix of emotions and thoughts half-formed.
Jerry, unperturbed and nonchalant, added, “It’s not that likely. Fifty-fifty odds, I’d say.” He took a sip of his beer. “Not that bad, since if we don’t all go pop, we get a wish-granting demon for a full day, no string attached.”
Seeing Greg’s look of disbelief, Jerry added, “Multiple wishes. As many as we want, for a full day. C’mon, it’s a great deal! Imagine it! Whatever you want, as much as you want! Money! Drugs!” He eyed Greg with a twinkle in his eye, “or maybe a college degree, if you want to live a boring life.”
Greg stiffened, his pulse rising. A spark of hope ignited inside him.
Then he remembered what he’d be risking. An inexplicable case of spontaneous heart explosion. Greg’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, before settling on a frown. “Are you suicidal?”
Giving him a knowing look, at which Greg’s face darkened, Jerry shook his head. “Buddy, we wouldn’t be doing this,” he gestured to their surroundings: a room filled with supposedly ancient tomes bought off of craigslist, off-putting knickknack found at flea markets, and discarded fast-food wrappers, “if we were living even slightly better lives. Sarah’s last three boyfriends all died in accidents, Rowan has been turned down for every job he’s ever applied to, Tom’s drug addiction has destroyed his body past the point of no return, and Lucy’s livelihood is being threatened by the local gang’s protection racket. I won’t speak for the others, since they asked me not to share, but kid, this is it for us.”
Stolen story; please report.
Greg could only sigh. It wasn’t like he could go back and face his parents after the hell they had put themselves through to get him into college. The guilt was already eating him up inside. Twice, Steve had caught him staring blankly at the safe where Jerry’s gun was held. Both times, Steve had taken Greg out for icecream and held one-sided conversations for hours until Greg had gotten ahold of himself.
Steve was a great guy like that. Greg wasn’t sure how Steve ended up with the group, he never said, and no one ever asked.
---
Snapping back to himself, Greg found the ritual already underway, the group chanting in a strange, throaty language and forming esoteric hand gestures, just like they had practiced the day before. Jerry had been so impressed with their efforts that he took the group out for a movie night, paying out of his own pocket.
None of the members were bad people, really. Honestly, Greg couldn’t call this a true cult. They never isolated him from his friends and family, didn’t try to ‘break him down and build him back up again,’ like he had read on the internet. They were just… unfortunate. Down on their luck. A bit desperate for a way out.
Like Greg.
Halfway through the ritual (Greg was keeping track, he too had memorized the script), he suddenly thought of his parents.
I can’t die. They would be devastated.
It was a simple thought, one Greg had half-formed before, but the miasma of self-doubt and guilt had clouded his mind, shoving it down before he could reflect on it further. It was only now, chanting in a language he didn’t recognize even vaguely, contorting his hands like some kind of anime character, all in order to summon a demon that may or may not pop his heart like a zit, that he was able to think clearly.
In that moment, Greg found the resolve to live.
However, that resolve paled in comparison to a different fear.
Crippling social anxiety.
He couldn’t bring himself to step away, interrupt the ritual his… friends(?) were performing, that they had placed their hopes in. So instead, he flubbed it. Not unlike the wife of the guitarist of a certain 1960’s British rock band, he fumbled his lines and hand signs just enough that he felt mostly certain that he wouldn’t be counted as part of the summoning.
---
The group had performed actual magic before. Greg was flabbergasted the first time they had done so. Jerry had taken a pile of kitchen spices and animal bits, drew a circle around them, grunted and hooted, threw a pinch of salt at the pile, and then in a puff of crimson smoke, it disappeared, replaced with a steaming mug of what appeared to be coffee.
“You used actual magic to… brew a batch of coffee?” Greg asked, mildly perturbed that someone had violated all common sense to conjure a container of caffeine.
Jerry closed his eyes, taking a sip. “Ah, damn, that’s good shit.” Then, he looked at Greg. “Kid, this is by definition the best cup of coffee on the planet. I’m not joking. The scroll is titled, and I quote, ‘Rites and Methods for Conjuration of Ambrosial Brew.’ To be honest, I wasn’t expecting coffee the first time, but apparently the majority of the world agrees that nothing beats a good cup of coffee in the morning.”
Again, Greg didn’t have the knowledge or credentials to refute that. Also, he didn’t know magic was real until a few seconds ago, so there was that too.
---
As the ritual neared its end, Greg felt the pit in his stomach grow heavier. Candles flickered, the air shimmered, and the bloody pentagram began to glow a foreboding deep crimson.
With a final, guttural hiss, the incantation was complete.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, eleven bodies crumpled to the floor.
Ba-Dum. Ba-Dum. Greg’s heart thumped in his chest, his weak cardiovascular system threatening to pop all on its own from lack of exercise and overreliance on fast food.
Oh good, that still works, the thought.
He blinked.
There, in the center of the room, where the moment before had been nothing, stood a humanoid figure. Skin blood-red, clawed hands and taloned feet, wearing something reminiscent of a Greek toga, the demon had its back to Greg.
Greg let out an involuntary gasp.
The demon whirled around, its piercing orange, vertical pupils widening in surprise.
Then, it- he, spoke. “Oh. This isn’t good.”
Greg blinked. The demon sounded just as terrified as Greg felt. Glancing at the lifeless bodies surrounding them, Greg couldn’t disagree. “Uh, I don’t suppose you could let me go?”
“What?” the demon cocked his head.
“What?” Greg replied dumbly.
The demon sighed. “I’m not going to hurt you, human. But uh…” he trailed off, nervously.
Greg waited, not sure what to make of the whole situation. Greg supposed his best course of action was to channel all of his efforts into disassociating. It worked for most of his social anxiety, why would this be any different?
Finally, he received a response. “Please don’t send me back!” The demon dropped to his knees, hands clasped, a pleading look and on the verge of tears, “I can’t face my parents after getting kicked out of uni! They’ll kill me!”
Greg, having nearly accomplished the impossible feat of separating his soul from his body, had no control over his response, having been ingrained into his very being after years of banter with his friends in high school, uttered the words that would begin a new and very strange phase in his life.
With the same dead tone and expression that can only be found on the most soulless of college students after pulling several back-to-back all-nighters, Greg unhesitating replied with, “Oh, same.”