The Persistence Of Memory Read online

  There were many legends associated with the book, but the thing that drew her to it most was the illustrations, and one in particular. CALX was the heading. The picture showed a young man, bound to a mast of a burning ship. He was smiling.

  He had George’s face.

  Accompanying the illustration was a set of precise instructions. It took her the rest of the hour to copy them down to a notepad in her firm precise handwriting, but she was singing inside as she left the library.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  Sourcing the ingredients proved to be a problem. Mementoes of the deceased were the easy part; procuring the hand of a dead murderer proved more difficult.

  But not impossible.

  It seemed that anything was available, for a price. It cost her almost all of their savings, and when it was delivered she took one look at it then hid it away until she needed it. The scented candles were likewise exotic, but she finally tracked them down in an Asian shop in Barnsley. The last thing to arrive was the Holy Water from Rome. Neither George nor Betty had ever taken much time for religion, and certainly not the Roman variety, but the recipe in the book called for it, and Betty always followed recipes.

  Her frustration grew while waiting for all the ingredients to finally arrive, but it seemed that the piano – George – knew what she planned. Every night it played a gentle, almost funereal song, just twelve bars but enough that Betty knew she was doing the right thing. She spent the nights memorizing the words and actions she was going to need when the time came. That was something she knew how to do. It was almost like doing her multiplication tables back in school, with the same sing-song chanting rhythm to it. But this had a far more different purpose.

  On the day the Holy Water arrived the piano had been thrumming almost constantly in anticipation, Betty’s stomach roiling and seething in time.

  “The wood remembers,” George would have said. He often spoke of how sometimes it felt like the piano played from memory. That thought brought fresh tears again.

  Tonight. I will do it tonight.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  The preparations did not take long. She started by drawing a circle of chalk, taking care never to smudge the line as she navigated her way around the piano. Beyond this she rubbed a broken garlic clove in a second circle around the first.

  When this was done, she took the small jar of Holy Water and went round the circle again just inside the line of chalk, leaving a wet trail that dried quickly behind her. Within this inner circle she made her pentacle using the signs laid out in The Concordances, and joined each sign most carefully to the edges of the lines she had already made. This proved trickier than she’d thought it would be due to having to plan around the legs of the piano, and it involved more scrambling around on the hard floor than was good for her bad hip. But finally the pentacle was done and she was able to stand.

  The rest of it went slower as every muscle in her body was telling her she needed to rest.

  I’ll do that later. When George is back.

  In the points of the pentacle she placed five portions of bread wrapped in linen, and in the valleys five of the scented candles. Finally came the part she’d been dreading. She removed the withered hand from its wrapping and, trying not to look too closely, placed it on the lid of the piano.

  I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.

  She raised her voice and started the chant she’d learned earlier. The piano thrummed in sympathy.

  Kerub impero tibi per Adam

  Aquila impero tibi per alas Tauri.

  Serpens impero tibi per Angelum et Leonem.

  The walls of the dining room seemed to beat and pulse, as in time with a giant heart. Overhead she heard the sound of rapid movement, footsteps fading in the distance as if something had just run across the room upstairs. She caught a movement at the corner of her eye and turned just as dark shadows slithered from the piano and began to make their way towards her.

  She raised her voice to a loud shout, and started to stamp her feet in time. The piano responded by ringing with each stamp.

  Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.

  The shadows continued to come forward, a wall of them four, six, eight feet tall until they filled the whole room and writhed high around the piano. Betty was buffeted from side to side as the piano rocked and threatened to fall.

  Damnú ort! she shouted at the top of her voice.

  A percussive blast blew through the room; a light so bright that she could still see it even when she pressed her eyes tightly closed. The rocking abated, and silence fell, her eyes slowly adjusting again to the dim light provided by the candles. Even before she could focus she heard him – George­ – running his hands across the piano keys in the old familiar song.

  You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

  Her legs went to jelly beneath her and she half-fell, half-stumbled to the piano stool, tears blinding her. Someone sat there. She reached out a hand.

  George?

  Cold flesh pressed against her, wet and clammy. She tasted brine as a wind whipped spray in her face and the wood of the piano creaked.

  George?

  A hand pressed against hers, then another, yet the pianist kept on playing.

  The wind lashed into her face now and the floor beneath her buckled and swayed.

  A ship in a storm; the wood remembers.

  “George? Help me!” she shouted as more hands grabbed at her, dragging her inexorably towards where the open top of the piano waited like a gaping mouth.

  You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

  That was the last she heard before she was pulled completely off her feet. The piano lid closed with a clang.

  Then all was quiet.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  THIS STORY ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN THE AUTHOR'S COLLECTION DARK MELODIES FROM DARK REGIONS PRESS.

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