For One Night Only

The poster, smeared across an eroding wall in an eroding part of the city was not dissimilar to many other posters stuck up on those archaic rust-coloured bricks. Rows upon rows of tattered advertisements adorned the edifice, for films long gone and unremembered, tours for musical groups disbanded after early, tragic deaths, books unread and pulped. The site was a makeshift gallery of obsolete pop-culture, weather-beaten its once bright colours faded as the memories of the art and artists framed therein. A passing glance would not have attracted the eyes of the busy and nervous pedestrians who’d stumbled into this dilapidated estate of the featureless dead factories. The poster was not for them, it was for certain eyes who knew certain strange and uncommon things. A white rectangle with the word KULTUS in red.

For those lost souls who knew the significance of that word, it meant one thing, the Obsidian Carnival was, once again, abroad. Kultus, that foul beast of painted men, that notorious crew of divine lunatics and perfidious actors, carnal clowns and absurdist butchers had come to Glasgow.

There were no dates nor locations, no ticket prices upon that simple sign, only the word, but the word was enough. For those who knew of its existence also knew its venue, it was, after all, the same place it had performed in for centuries. Currently inhabited by the remains of Laithewaite Hall, a condemned shell on the edge of town; a damned place of brooding fear, where nightmares languished, thirsty to manifest. A morbid history saturated its soot-stained sandstone, the haunt of many whose savage derangements were both novel and ambitious. Laithewaite himself was no stranger to controversy. He was hanged shortly after they removed the child cages from the cellar, as well as the sundered remnants of the orphans he'd gluttonously dined upon.

The hall's surroundings were yards of wasteland of feral and fierce grass that devoured the once sturdy cobblestones beneath. The site was littered with all manner of the city's droppings; one single shoe of a sexual assault victim; fast food cartons that would outlive the last gasping breath of humankind; rusty syringes encrusted with dormant, crystalline disease; broken Buckfast bottles and half century old sheets of tattered news, the rotting skeleton of a dead Alsatian. All of this cultural sediment, washed by up time and deposited to an abandoned silt bank.

Of the strangled Nuns and claw-hammered prostitutes, there were no physical remains but certain individuals with certain sensitivities may still have managed to catch a glimpse or whiff of those past atrocities as they sped past the place in their cars or shambled past in their narcotic or neurological deliria. The place was not normally frequented by the living, but Kultus was coming to town, things were about to be far from normal.

Gavin McAleer was also far from normal. He also knew certain strange and uncommon things and thus upon gazing at the minimalist announcement became enraptured by the notion of the forthcoming performance.

Indeed, the last time Kultus had dragged their blasphemous mummery to Glasgow was July the 21^st 1969 several years prior to McAleer's slithering entrance to this world. His anticipation was that of a man who knew that something unique was about to manifest, something he had to witness. McAleer would be there at the right date and time. He did not need a sign nor a ticket, for all the details were self-evident, he just knew.

The main reason for this knowledge was his years spent on the streets of the city. Many looked at his filthy clothes and matted hair, grubby beard and dirt-encrusted skin and judged him to be nothing but a vagrant, but it was all affectation, a specific look and demeanour cultivated with much effort. His nature was predominantly ascetic but this was no monastic discipline. Rather, he sublimated his self and desires into his workings. Just as the desert has its sorcerers, the forest its shaman and the jungle its witch doctors, the city had people like McAleer. Those suspicious characters, held at arms length by the populace who were afraid of their arts and just like the Sorcerers, Shaman and Witch-doctors, the people who the truly desperate turned to for assistance. He preferred the term Street-Elder.

McAleer knew all the spirits of the city. No Dyads or Djinn here. He had walked the roads with the Deity of the Black Labyrinth, Tar MacAdam, smelled his bitumen essence and heard his whispers, in tyres hissing though rain. He had courted favours from the Queen of Glamours, Ad Wordsworth, witnessed her countless avatars, derived occult meanings from her explicit messages emblazoned on the billboards.

McAleer was familiar with the concrete golems, who emerged from the pillars of flyovers and multi-storey car-parks, usually with malevolent intentions. He had heard the bitter keening of the sewer-nymphs, who were once trafficked prostitutes, their crimson-throat corpses wandering the dark damp places, discarded when their owners found them unprofitable. He had been dazzled by the neon wraiths, who like day-glo sirens dragged their prey into abandoned shops to drive them mad and devour their souls. He knew all the denizens of the hidden yet fatal landscape of this town just as he knew that Kultus would be arriving on the night of the 25^th.

Just as he knew their arrival signified a dramatic turn of events.

He did not allow his mind to focus on what such events may be or might entail, rather McAleer took the time to reflect on how it was he came to be in such a unique and dishevelled position. He had not always been this way. Once he remembered, back in the nineteen nineties, he had been a right lad. Something had changed that, something he would never forget.

His memory of it was so perfect he could still hear the bus rattle as it shuddered along the rain-slicked road and could still make out the metronomic ticking of the windscreen wipers. It was the late bus, travelling down past the endless brick wall of the shipyards on one side and the rusty green fence of the park.

The street-lights gave the pale skeletal trees nearest the front of the park a warm glow, but behind was a thicket of unwelcoming darkness. As the bus pulled into a barren stop quarter of a mile from anywhere, McAleer had glanced out the rain spattered window into that dark empty park. At first he thought it a plastic bag caught in a low branch, but it's movement convinced him otherwise. A small greyish vapour hidden amongst the trees. He caught it again, a shape, a hint of limbs, hair, a face. A face with two black holes where there should have been eyes, a face of a child, of a ghost. There was no mistaking her for a trick of the eyes or light, he was seeing the ghost of a child, a young girl perhaps four or five. The vision had terrified him, the ghost seemed to radiate such an alluring malice that McAleer got off the bus, hopped over the fence and suddenly found himself amidst the claustrophobic trees. The horrid ghost said nothing just let him approach. Close up she was still as nebulous she had been through the window of the bus. Her blank eyes stopped gazing at him and she bent over and placed something on the ground before vanishing. She had left him a gift, something small glinting like a jewel. It was a small crystal tear. Later he would find out this object was precious beyond measure, A Tear of God, it was called and it became his favourite charm, a talisman.

The experience had left him changed, an accidental initiation into a deeper, darker world, a domain of symbols, of dreams, of derangement and violence. He had embraced this bloodthirsty paranormal realm and was delivered a knowledge of which the masses were oblivious. He had never, even amidst the strangeness, ever dreamed that Kultus would return, not in his lifetime. But they were coming. All he could do was wait, and wait he did.

He headed towards Laithewaite Hall on the night of the 25^th. As he approached, he saw the clusters of shambling, odd people emerging out of the dark. Most were like him, those who had abandoned paltry frivolities like clean clothes, grooming and all the other mentally dulling habits of the normal life. Though he recognised three or four, there were dozens of them heading from various directions towards the hall, as if they had been blown in by the night's angry wind, more human litter collecting in that blighted place.

The Hall was not well lit, but there was, outside, a small obese man, he was wearing no top and his body was covered in tattoos. On top of his head was an elaborate hat, somewhere between a Stove-pipe and Stetson on top of which was a fire. He was encouraging the crowd to come in; the Kultus' barker.

“Step this way! For one night only, behold the unspeakable marvels and unimaginable horrors that wait within. Kultus has, once more, arrived to your collective hovel. Tonight bear witness to the damned artificers of your baleful futures. Hear the song that shapes worlds, take a tour through the dreamscape of a demon, gasp at the impossible and shudder in fear as we open The Red Door.”

A man buzzed past McAleer, his presence tingled at the nerves. Another familiar face, one McAleer was surprised to see, yet it was obvious he'd be here. Jacob Lytton, a deadly man, who served a hidden private god, that existed only for him and who, through Jacob, enacted its brutal, supernatural will. McAleer could not think of many who would be pleased he'd returned from wherever it was he had been, but he knew they'd say nothing. Tonight Laithewaite Hall was the domain of Kultus, not a forum for petty squabbles.

The hall was not as dismal as he would have imagined. Certainly the place could have used some tasteful redesign of it's interior, but it functioned without being unpleasantly decrepit. The hall itself was quite large, with the seating having been placed around the edges. No set stage with proscenium arch nor thick red velvet lazily draping down from under it. Instead the audience had been cordoned off by what appeared to be the kind of roadside fencing one would see at a pedestrian crossing. A single sharp spotlight shone into the centre of the room, in it stood, what at first McAleer assumed to be, a classical Greek statue, a representation of some muscle-man. He took little notice, found a seat near the front that suited him and sat down and, once comfortable, placed his eyes at the centre of the room. This was no statue he realised but a man, frozen in place. The position he was in, including the weights he held, could not have been kept in place for long without discomfort. His discipline was impressive. Others had noticed the individual too as they took their places. McAleer heard one say “interesting version of the strong-man routine, I'll give them that.”

From his seat McAleer scanned more people as they entered. There were two Apobiosist Nuns, in their full red and black robes. Close by them sat an ugly man, with bulging eyes and ears covered with rings. It was said he'd got each ear pierced every time he killed a man, McAleer never quite knew if that was true or not. The man took in the view of the room too and for a second, their eyes locked. He smiled, nodded and gave McAleer a wave. McAleer returned all three. It was not in one's interests to owe a man like Gordon Skinner, especially if the story about the earrings was true. Next to Skinner sat another gangland Magician, a young lad, his story still cultivating itself in the soil of that dark territory.

He spotted the Wirry-Coo, that vindictive wee nyaff who loved to torment people. There was even a representative of the City Elders, a shrivelled horror of great age and eyes filled with sharp, gleaming malevolence. Everyone had given her a wide berth. The room was filling quickly. McAleer looked again at the statuesque man in the centre. He had not appeared to move a muscle. McAleer was astonished he was able to pull it off for so long.

Two lights flashed on and off, twice. All who were coming had arrived. The performance could begin. At the cue of the lights, the muscle man finally, with a gasp moved from his position. He looked around the room, gave a smile and a quick bow several times. A voice came through an amplifier from somewhere.

“Put your hands together for Belthrain.” It said, it was not light hearted, it was more like a demand from a sociopathic schoolteacher. People applauded despite that. Belthrain had indeed put on an incredible, if subtle, show.

Belthrain took another bow, applauded at the audience and then left. As he did so another took to the stage. The gaunt man with something of the Mantis about his look and demeanour took a bow when he reached the centre of the stage. Given his unique and alien look the anticipation of the crowd was papable. “My dearest audience, I am The Hypnotist.” he said, introducing himself with such simple identity that he made it his own, as if there were no other hypnotist, as if he were the only one.

“Picture this, if you would be so kind...” He began to recount a story in a quiet but deep voice.

“The stars are obscured in the dark, not by clouds but by a hissing, stinging, chaotic swarm. The sandstorm which you find yourself staggering though is an unfixed place; a product of my thoughts and your imagination.”

He had a way about him, thought McAleer, impressed that the rest of the audience sat silent, rapt. With such efficacy did he speak, choosing the precise words to create a whirling sandstorm of idea. Finally, through this arid blizzard of phrase and tone, did the desert emerge, dim under the bejewelled skies.

“A sea of sand, slopes and dunes still constantly moving, but with less vigour. This world we create emerges like a TV show tuned in from static. We walk the long and empty desert, perhaps you see a rock, or a cactus or and animal skull but you cannot see far, save for endless sands and endless night. The dust of the world drags at your feet. What is this place?”

The Hypnotist set the scene so well they were no longer listening to his voice but witness to the events he described with supernatural clarity. They wandered this wasteland of words, staggered through the tedium, struggled with any form of destination. On and on he went until.

“And there, in the distance is… is that flames? Torches? Civilisation? We should move closer, come, let us see who we are dealing with. Wait, can you smell that?”

A waft in his nose tingled with the scent of roast lamb, always McAleer’s favourite as a child. Was that chanting? The spell was broken as McAleer wondered where the sound was coming from. He looked to see The Hypnotist has some kind of rattling metallic contraption which he was shaking gently as he spoke, which sounded like distant chanting. McAleer was annoyed at being pulled out of the story but was impressed by the The Hypnotist’s commitment.

“Their white headscarves are bright swirls against the night. Though some of them brandish guns, the glint of swords is the most apparent sign of their strength, but these are not angry men, nor fools. They have come to this place by means such as ours, for reasons such as ours. Be careful here, respectful. These people are as real as you are, here… in this place. Yes they can see you. One’s looking right at you now.”

And he was, a tall brown man, face blasted by sand and sun for so long he seemed to have the complexion of a rock face. His frown was signifying curiosity but he gave McAleer a cautious nod. With a small cock of the head to the right he was pointing the direction of the point of this whole escapade.

“Move past the striped tents and disgruntled camels, to the right three wizards in bright coloured silks bicker about a dice game they are gambling on. At the edge of this convention, some horses are being skittish as greedy jackals outside the camp pace impatiently and with anticipation. Beyond the camp in the middle distance, perhaps half a mile away, a dark lake ripples. From here it seems an almost perfect circle of black liquid centred by an oasis on which a golden throne shone. Those who have followed you see this and all say one word. ‘Attid’.”

They did, it was the only word that stuck out amongst there foreign tongues “Attid,” repeated the voices. As McAleer looked around he could see that there were none amongst them who knew what it meant. McAleer, was guided forth towards the oily pool, hearing now the strange rippling noises, not of liquid, but of rasping, like paper. Upon close inspection, the lake is not one of oil or water at all, but a swarming, writhing mass of insects. “This is the Shroud of Attid.” One passer-by offers helpfully, waving his hand at the deranged convention. The bugs, engaged in some kind of ritualistic war, are uncountable, a mile around and waist deep. So McAleer discovers as he wades through this insanity towards the Throne.

Upon approach a shadow upon the throne, thickens into shape and life. They have reached the centre, the shadow now resembles a man, with horns and mandibles and an armour of insects. A terrible marvel. McAleer is impressed deeply by The Hypnotist. His story an invocation, a spell which opened the door to the domain of this unknown god. Attid is only too happy for the attention. Trades are made between the insect god and the bolder members of the audience. Conversations flare up and then, just like that, they were all once again in the dim and dusty Laithewaite hall, as The Hypnotist’s time in the spotlight was at an end.

McAleer was astonished, such talent was unheard of, even by the most adept of the occult arts. It made him feel useless, like an amateur, like a fraud. This was why he had known he would come, not to be shamed but to learn just how far these things went. He was standing, like so many others in the crowd, an ovation in the first performance. They were all coming to terms with just how skilled it all was.

McAleer was unprepared for the next act. A pile of rags, struggled toward the stage with a large wooden staff to prop it up. As the rags took the centre, a vague feminine shape became obvious and the woman uncovered herself to bask in the single white spotlight. Her skin was the colour of bone, stark featureless white. She was clothed in a deep blue dress that hung from her frame. Her head was shaved, or she was bald and she had the strangest eyes. From where he sat McAleer could not figure out what was wrong with those eyes.

The note of bow across a single string was played through speakers and the woman began to sing. At first she was just getting pitch perfect with the note, which she did. She sustained the tone for a while as she did some kind of twiddling spiralling motion with her fingers just below her mouth. This went on for almost a minute before she began doing a more complex wiggling dance with her fingers as she dropped tone abruptly, then raised it. Whatever she was doing, odd as it was, seemed to be having the effect of creating some kind of distortion around the tips of her ever-moving fingers. At first it looked just like the shifting of air around something extremely hot, but slowly it began to take shape, it was then with a burst of her voice she thrust it forward into the spotlight. It was some kind of bubble of air refracting the white light through it so it rippled with colour. It was, McAleer noticed upon its third revolution that it wasn’t just a bubble, but a skull. The artist launched it into the air where it vanished, there was some applause, but the woman was just getting started. As she sang, she danced to the wordless sounds she intoned. Four men pulled an inflatable round swimming pool onto the stage, it was filled with some odd grey goo. As the performer danced and sang around it, the goo began to ripple, to take form as if encouraged into life by her art. Cymatics they called it, McAleer knew, but even though this was a different level of the technique he found that knowing the mechanism behind it ruined the magic. He was waiting for it to end, to see what would come next. What he did not expect was the sudden cessation of all the music and song. The echo resonated for a moment and then the performers all stood there as the flowing simulacrum stepped from the cheap blue plastic pool to a collective gasp. The grey, fluid shape struggled with cohesion as it stood there, trying to hold onto its form.

It began to sing. As it did, it danced, holding its shape by its own music, it became more defined, features emerged, a blush of colour surged across it until it was an exact, but naked copy of the woman who had began the entire act. The music started up, following the double’s song. It… she continued to dance and sing while the other woman accompanied her. As this went on she began to lose form even as her double became more sure, more confident. The original singer shuffled to the pool, stopped singing and slowly melted into a grey liquid, while the double continued to dance and sing, and put on the empty clothes left on the ground. When she was fully dressed, she stopped, the music stopped at the same instant. The performers bowed to uproarious applause.

The climax had been so strange, so unexpected and so perfect, McAleer was in awe, but he knew they were just getting started. Next came clowns, but these were no painted buffoons in garish outfits. There were four of them, rake thin, three men and one woman. The only signifier of their art was the red nose, otherwise all wore drab, loose costumes of faded browns and greys, all were shaven bald. Wordlessly they tumbled in, unaccompanied by any music. All four stood in a square and bowed to the audience before beginning their performance.

One of the men and the woman lay on the floor with their legs raised and the two other men ran around on all fours like dogs, including miming marking their scents on the raised legs. They proceeded to growl and pace around each other, as if both were spoiling for a fight. The man and the woman stood up and pretended to pull the “dogs” away from each other as if with chains. They faked embarrassed looks and apologies and then began to walk off and both walked to the opposite side of the stage area from the other, where they pretended to let the dogs off the leash again. Both “dogs” dashed straight into the centre, meeting each other, chasing each other, barking and running away from their “masters”. The scene was amusing, cute even, but McLeer wondered what miracle they would bring to their act.

The clowns who were behaving like humans gave each of the ones acting like dogs, a bone. The dog would then run with it and put it in a pile and come back and beg for another bone. Eventually the humans ran out of bones, but the man discovered the dogs bone piles and began throwing the bones to the woman who threw them at the dogs and who in turn returned the bones to the pile. This grew faster and faster until the dogs gave up all pretence at being dogs, and all four were juggling bones between them. There was some aspect of jazz to this part. Each of them threw one bone from their left hand, anti-clockwise, to the person on the left, but each bone that landed in the next person’s right hand seemingly went where it pleased, giving the juggling a strong rhythm but free form complexity that was impressive.

With a yelp, one gave up their place in the juggling, the others instantly adapting, the first jumped in the air, performing a somersault into the middle of the juggled bones being passed across. From the centre, without pause, he grabbed onto two passing bones, and upset the entire rhythm but not the jugglers. It was quite the feat. He was showing off, acting proud for the audience, when all the bones began clunking off his head, as three other unamused clowns took umbrage at him hogging all the glory. The Clown gathered up a clutch of bones and sensing his plan the others did the same as they retreated to the perimeter of the stage. Bones began to fly, a throwing war, ceaseless as each caught and passed bones being thrown at them, seemingly at random. Throughout this, they dodged and weaved, tumbled and leapt, one’s trousers fell down and he had to pull them back up while collecting and throwing bones, he kept picking up and dropping the trousers until finally managing to be free enough to use both hands to pull them up and tighten them to delighted cheers. They all did little feats like this, each one comical and surprisingly deft.

There was, disappointingly, nothing else to the act, nothing strange or metaphysical, however, they were still masters of their art worthy of McAleer’s genuinely given applause.

It was then that the red door was brought into the room. This was why he was here. This was why most people had come. It was the thing that had made Kultus notorious and famous across the globe and they were going to make everyone know why.

Sombre drums, Slow thuds, funeral beats were accompanied by a voice, a droning, somewhere between Tuvan throat singing and the rumbling deep bass of monks of the Eastern Orthodox but this was no hymn, of at least not to Jehovah. A single spotlight shone on the stage area, a narrow circle within the dark. A set of identical twins, eyeless and naked but for their elaborate tattoos walked into the light with the red door. It was an unremarkable piece of carpentry save that it stood there, perfectly balanced. It was as if it had been fitted onto an invisible frame. The gloomy ominous song continued as four people took to the stage, each wearing elaborate costumes. One wore a mask and sleeved robe made entirely of money. Fifty pound notes by the looks of it. Another was clothed in newspapers, wearing a bondage mask with zips where the eyes and mouth were covered. The third was wrapped in wires, blue and red plastic electrical wires, woven expertly across their skin until they were engulfed. The four wore the trappings of a medieval king, save for the crown, for the person’s head was covered by a full headpiece of some horned goat demon. It was from this person the song was emitting. The three others stood at a distance, creating a triangle that the fourth was inside with the door. The song finished and the man in the demon mask called out “Bring it forth!”

The performance suddenly became very real, a rumble of displeasure and mild affront was emitted by several hypocrites in the audience as the blind twins dragged a nude, and terrified looking young boy into the light, he could not have been more than eight. The child had been shaved, gagged and bound. McAleer had expected something like this but it was no less affecting seeing it happen. He felt sickened in the pit of his stomach.

Which was partially the point, the room had to be eradicated of any pleasant thoughts, he intuited. The door was going to be opened to a place which did not tolerate such things. Still it appeared there was more to come before that. A lot of ritualistic chanting and beseechings, protection spells and wardings, banishings and invoking and then after about ten minutes, the demon man rang the bell.

A shiver rippled through the room. McAleer heard someone behind him mutter “Rapid absorption of ambient heat… strong indicator of an endothermic reaction.”

He would have turned to see who had said it, to agree, but what was happening in front of him was too incredible. The door shifted and grew until it nearly reached the ceiling which was about twenty feet or so from the floor. Around it an archway of barbed wire and black shards of glass formed and the door bisected down the middle, leaving a small trickle of blood on the ground.

The door rumbled balefully in the hushed hall. Taking a staff, the demon thwacked on the door, saying “Rheizoan!”

This was repeated a further hundred and ten times. McAleer counted, he was taking everything in, no longer a curious audience-member but a student of this art unfolding in front of him. He analysed the complex back and forth of Demon-mask’s little steps, almost like a dance, he learned the rhythm of the hitting of the staff on the door, memorised the steps of the others part in the ritual, the turns and the raising arm gestures. Each movement, each sound was all calculated, a ritual practised to perfection.

The doors began to open. Beyond was an incomprehensible haze, a long howl that could have been an air-raid siren. A bell struck somewhere near the world but not in it. A ghost sound, its echo haunting the inside of McAleer’s skull. The drumming grew faster, the chanting began in earnest and…

Rheizon was there, in the room. A greyish lump perhaps eight feet in height, swaddled in long sheets of stained green cloth that were wrapped tightly around its maggot shape like an attempt to mummify the beast. Atop its lumpy shape was nothing akin to a head, but it did wear a pink plastic mask, a poor attempt at Marilyn Monroe, probably made when she was at her height. The creature did not have any specific delineation between front or back, as far as McAleer could tell. A number of long thin spindly bones exuded from holes in the bloated grey flesh, a circle of makeshift arms. Several of these clicked and shot forward, grabbing the child who was still sat there in terror. In one swift blur of a movement, it flashed forth, slit open the boy’s neck until blood drenched a part of the creature. It opened the door and threw the corpse through like it was a rag-doll.

Satisfied with the offering Rheizon finally seemed to notice where it was. The mask spun round and round looking at the audience.

“Among honoured guests, are we.”

Rheizon’s communication was not verbal yet it could be heard. A whispering breeze of insect chatter rattling up and down the spine, an agitation at the end of the nerves. The entity seemed to sniff the air then proceeded. “One for one. We accept the trade which has now become tradition between us. One for one.”

This is what he was here for, what all of them were here for. The creature known as Rheizon was not some great lord of the abyss, it was more akin to a market trader than a lofty CEO, but within its field it was well regarded. “One for one.” It repeated.

One child’s sacrifice for one person to be granted access to, for want of a better word, Hell. A Devil’s bargain bought and paid for by Kultus. To what end no one but the performers themselves knew, though there were none thought their motives were altruistic. The demon-mask stood by Rheizon, was dwarfed by its dripping bulk.

“Let the bidding commence.”

“Fifty grand!” Shouted someone, to much laughter.

“I offer a Lamentation Box!” Someone else shouted which got some attention.

“A copy of the Knidyle Incunabulum!”

“The Living Head of Sinna the Odalesque!”

McAleer was astonished that such legendary objects had ended up in a few square miles of Western Scotland. Not that the Demon-Mask seemed particularly interested in any of the offerings. McAleer had no illusions, he wasn’t in the running, those who walked through the Red Door were powers to begin with, most of those who walked back out were figures historical, at least within the secret history of the world.

The bidding continued with several more elaborate offers, including a bid from the Apobiosist Nuns who seemed willing to trade “A vial of corrupted Solar Mercury”, whatever on Earth that was. McAleer’s arts had left him with little to trade but his talents, which were laughable compared to what he’d witnessed this evening. Amongst these others he felt himself a fraud, a fool deluding himself that he was a sorceror. The offers continued, ancient artefacts and books, tapestries that moved, recordings of the future.

All these years he had honed his skills, made his life into a performance that never abated, he had walked into the dusk and the shadow of Glasgow and had nothing to show for it. Nothing but a crystal tear, given to him long before. He plucked out the Tear of God from the small inside pocket he’d stitched into a hole in the inner lining of his grubby coat.

Between thumb and forefinger he held it, immediately it gave of a radiance that brought a hush to all in the darkened room, a worry, and a tension. “A Tear of God” McAleer said.

There were rumbles and murmurs throughout the room. The man in the demon mask raised his hand and cocked his head in curiosity. “The gentleman can attest to its authenticity?”

McAleer could not, he had no idea if the thing was genuine, no idea what it even was. He was a man out of his depth, a pretender, a chancer with some natural luck. “I- I… I’m not certain.”

“No need,” the chittering wind of Rheizon said. “It is real, it is enough.”

McAleer wasn’t certain what was happening for a second. A man at the other side stood up, still hidden in shadows. “No wait, look, I’ll give you anything you want… just name it.”

The man in the demon mask shuffled across the room, beckoning on McAleer to join them. “Auction is over.” He insisted. It was only then McAleer realised they had accepted his offer.

The demon-masked man guided him towards the grey bulk while mutters of anger and dissatisfaction rippled and echoed through the darkened room. One of Rheizon’s spindly digits stretched forth to take the crystal from McAleer.

“Come.” it said, opening the Red Door. McAleer looked across the threshold but there was nothing to be seen but the other end of the room. Rheizon began moving towards it, vanishing into a space that could not be seen. With a gulp and one last look back at the crowd, McAleer crossed the border into mystery.