Tuesday, April 08, 2008

The Cursed Libretto (The Complete story)

The Cursed Libretto
(or: The Narration of Professor Greenwood and Mr. Durant)


Notre Dame in Pairs France

The Narration of Professor Greenwood and Mr. Durant
Part One of Three

Mr. Durant and Professor Greenwood were two scholars who lived around the turn of the twentieth century (but the specific time we are talking about is now: 1917) a little less than a hundred years ago in Paris, France; Mr. Durant was once the head of a faction of scholars and Professor Greenwood taught courses at the Paris University.
Up to this point, the time this story too root, both men had lead what you could call: simple and quiet lives; although within the city of Paris, they were well-known by most scholars, and somewhat heard of by the general public, but little more. This was all soon the change, for Mr. Durant and Professor Greenwood for they had found a scarce manuscript, dating to 200 BC, in the cellars of the once lived in house of Victor Hugo (whom was a senator in Paris in the mid 1850s).
“You know,” said Mr. Durant to Professor Greenwood in Mr. Durant’s library, “this might prove useful in many ways.”
“I read it last night,” said the professor, “I agree it could be sold for quite a lot of many.”
“What should we name this unnamed script?” asked Mr. Durant.
“Yes, it should have a name according to its contents,” answered the Professor.
And so they both sat back in the library looking at the ancient manuscript, written in an old Albanian dialect, that had existed perhaps back as far as 7000 BC, rewritten in 200 BC, in a clearer form of the same language, one both Mr. Durant and Professor Greenwood were proficient in.
The professor had been studying languages all his life, and the secrets of the unknown world of the old ones, or otherwise known as the Shinning Ones, the Angelic Renegades, and he knew they had kept records of their magic spells, and Azaz’el, one of the twenty leaders of the two-hundred renegades, taught humans some four-hundred years before the Great Flood had taken place, he taught them how to kill with magic swords and other weaponry. The book explained Azaz’el’s methods, spells, secrets. It indicated any living thing could be conquered but first had to gather the energy to do so, and the power of this secret energy within a person could see into both worlds, could withstand the harsh elements of earth and the cosmic universe, could even time travel, and see what ideas were in an enemies mind before the enemy implemented his plans—this is document, or book, or manuscript was really a libretto of spell binding words and lines of words.
Mr. Durant read and reread the book studied the charts of spells in it, for a long time, and today he had brought his ideas with him to the meeting with the professor. And said to the Professor the book should be called, ‘Azaz’el’s Ancient Set of laws for Warfare.’
“That just might work” said the Professor.
“By implementing these spells, and learning the secrets of the Angelic Renegades of that time, we can be able to make things come our way, without any interference of governments perhaps,” said Mr. Durant to the Professor.

They both decided to test this new idea out, but first Mr. Durant wanted to find the proper place to implement his experiment, it was 1917, the Great War was taking place. They were to go to the Western Front, known as Flanders, towards a town called Ypres, the area around Ypres was known as Salient, he picked this area out because it was fought over between 1914 to the end of the war in 1918, unknown of course at this moment in time, except it was ongoing. They both hid in Ypres Cloth Hall, which had been burnt in 1914.
It was on the 30 of July, 1917, Mr. Durant and the Professor found an odd, and isolated little farm near Passendale Church, a small village, five miles north east of Ypres, to rest the night away for the battle which would take place the following day. And so it did, and it stretched out until November 10, and the main thing was, for the professor and Durant, was to read this book with its enchantments, and to mentally build an invisible wall around Ypres so the Germans would not enter it, for it was close to the battlements. And it was said afterwards, Ypres should have been ransacked, but never was, and no one knew why, but the Germans seemed to have erased it from their minds. Yet the Passchendaele church was totally destroyed by shellfire.
All this seemed too perfect for both the Professor and Mr. Durant. Yet they both went back to Paris, hired a young couple to assist them in another experiment, the couples name were Mr. and Mrs. Sexton.
“Yes sir,” said Mr. Sexton, “I understand you will be using me and my wife and our apartment for your experiments,” and both Mr. and Mrs. Sexton signed an agreement to work for several weeks with the Professor and Mr. Durant, hoping for whatever success they were seeking might help them financially and it did, and all four lived in the apartment for the mean time.

The Professor late in the evening of October 25, 1917, sat quietly in a chair while the young couple was sleeping, and told Mr. Durant what he had done while he was away to London for the past week.
“I’m sure you’ll say I should not have done what I did, but all the same, I did cast one of the spells in Azaz’el’s volume onto the sleeping couple, each night while they were asleep.
“But why, they’ll become aggressive, if not warlike?” said Mr. Durant to the professor.
“He is mentally becoming more aggressive already, and his muscular tone is even becoming more noticeable, as is his reflexes quicker, I saw him yesterday purposely bump into a stranger, trip a kid who was running, he is looking for trouble,” said the Professor.
“From what you’ve told me,” said Mr. Durant, “Mr. Sexton will be either a madam or a warrior soon!”
“And so will his wife,” commented the Professor, adding, “until I saw the victory in Flanders, I didn’t really have confidence in this book of spells, and warfare, and our little experiment now has also added to my faith in the book.”

—On the sixth week, Mr. Durant and the Professor moved out of the apartment and back into their homes, paying the Sexton’s the $1000-dollars they had promised. They were soon to find out through, in December of 1917, there was a slew of strangling in Paris, most in the Lexington Gardens. Reports about this appeared in the daily newspapers, that a young man and woman had killed seven strangers, some old, a few young, and even a school aged student.
On another occasion, in January in 1918, the Professor and Mr. Durant, having coffee at Café de Flora, read about this couple running over a crippled man on crutches with his horse and cartage, and not stopping to help thereafter.
It was Mr. Durant that finally put two and two together, connecting the killings with the carriage incident, saying it was to the carelessness of his partner this was taking place, claiming it was the Sexton couple.
“Extra! Extra! Killer kills again near the Eiffel Tower!” A paperboy, by the name of Jack Stars, was yelling.
When Mr. Durant heard this, he grabbed a paper, paid the boy, and he and the professor looked it over, a police officer was now killed, beat over the head with a blunt instrument, and his head cut off.
The Professor was speechless, trembling with a cup of coffee in hand at the outside café.
“It’s that spell of his, everything inside Sexton’s head is mad, he will kill his wife soon I expect, I am afraid for you and me!” said the Professor.
“Calm yourself old friend, you shouldn’t have done what you did, but you did, and now we must find a solution; it is simple as that.”
“I suppose I was too excited to think things through, or to wait for you to come back from London, so I cursed him several nights in a row. We must get to Mrs. Sexton; I do believe she is not as inundated by the spell as he,” commented the Professor.

But Mrs. Sexton would not be there when the Professor and Mr. Durant would go to find her at her apartment, already she was gone, had packed her cloths and on her way to the train station, among the things she took was the written spell the Professor had chanted to her night over night. She was going to London to kill her mother, sell her property, and bring it back to her husband.
As she was walked to the station, Mr. Durant and the Professor had ridden by in their horse and carriage. They were feeling sorry for her, and Mr. Sexton was out at a café eating his lunch.
At the station, she hurried towards pier four, and boarded her train; saw an older lady with her grandson, her heart pumping malice. However, she found her seat, and sat quietly, the old lady and young lad across from her.
The child, a boy of perhaps eleven seemed to have caused a great deal of excitement, it was his birthday and was headed to London to visit his mother and father, the grandmother was caring for the child, he was talking up a storm.
“Good heavens!” said Sally Sexton, to the boy, now sitting alone, “it would seem you should have some cakes and bread to eat, you look famished.”
“No, I’m too excited to be starving Miss, but…” before the boy could say a word, Sally was coming back with a cake in her hands for the boy, gave it to him, and Sally sat back in her seat, and fell to sleep.”
The Grandmother returned, which seemed to have been an hour or so she was gone, and returned with some bread and water, the boy had eaten what Sally had given him already and he likewise had fallen to sleep, like Sally. After another hour, at last the grandmother woke him up, handed him the bread, and Sally woke up at the same time, started walking around the train, she seemed to have disappeared until the train stopped, and she was seen walking through one of the doors, and then again disappeared. The grandmother had found out, by noticing crumbs from a cake the boy had eaten something when she was gone, given to her perchance by this strange woman who sat across from them—that at least was her best guess, and the one she would tell he police for the boy was very sick, several days later, the London paper read, “Boy dies, poisoned on train from Paris…!” And a poor sketch of Sally was drawn, for the newspaper.

News of this slaying spread quickly, even to the newspapers in Paris.
“This is getting out of hand,” said Mr. Durant to Professor Greenwood, both eating at the Lipp’s café.
Suddenly, the Professor was attacked by a pain in his chest.
Just then, Roger Anderson, a novelist from America joined them, said, “I wish I knew this case better, about the so called killing couple, I could write a novel about them, I think this woman is the same one that helps her husband kill their prey in city here, what do you scholars think?”
They both nodded their heads as if it all was Greek to them, continuing to eat their chicken soup, as Roger sat next to them reading the paper, adding, “I know you fellows can’t come up with any kind of guess who they are, but I suggest you purchase a gun, and plenty of bullets, in case they try to strangle you two old coots.” And he laughed.


—A few hours later, Sally Sexton arrived at her Mother’s home in London, met her mother, and they both chatted around the kitchen table. Then she put the few things she had brought with her in a small bag, in the guest room. And she talked aloud to herself, saying: “Now my dear husband, you shall see how a killing should be handled!” And then she walked downstairs again to talk with her widowed mother.

Soon after the Professor and Mr. Durant talked to Roger Anderson, they went to a nearby gun shop; they had been fed a good idea. Each of them purchased a gun, loaded it, and began their second trip back to the Sexton apartment, they were going to put an end to this needless killing (the reason they did not go to the police was they did not want to implement themselves, hence, end up in old age, living their last days behind bars).
The Professor felt the only way to destroy Mr. Sexton was to wait at his apartment, and when he came home to shoot him, Mr. Durant would be watching for him, as the Professor hid behind the second floor corner in the corridor, saying to Mr. Durant, “If we leave this to the police, they will make mistakes and somehow this all will never be settled.”
When Mr. Sexton entered the hallway, all was very quiet; Mr. Durant motioned to the Professor, he was coming up the stairs, all of a sudden a rat ran across the hallway, and the Professor thought the noise was Sexton, turned a bit to peer down the hallway, saw Sexton, Mr. Durant hidden under an doorway arch, both of them now looking at one another, and the Professor shot his gun. Then he walked closer to look at the dead man, his face shocked him, he looked in his fifties, and he was actually in his early twenties.
They pulled the body into the apartment, as they had heard footsteps coming up the stairway to the hallway, and so they quickly went out and down the back fire escape.

Meanwhile, Sally was pacing the house, wondering exactly when she was going to kill her mother. She was an only child and knew she’d inherit all there was to inherit. She heard her mother sleeping, buzzing away on her bed, snoring that is, then it came to mind, why kill her with a knife, when she could burn the house down, and her in it, and collect the insurance, save her time from selling the house, she always had insurance, so why not.

“It’s done!” she said, and the house burnt to the ground, her mother yelling from the bedroom window, and Sally hiding behind a tree outside.
Suddenly she heard fire engines, and she ran towards the house screaming: “My mother’s in there, my mother’s in there!”
“What happened?” said one of the firemen as they started to hose the house down with water. Sally was dumbfounded for words, and then a man shouted orders. In a few minutes the house was burnt to the ground, as several firemen carried long hoses to the house.
For a while everyone was busy, then everything was quiet, the fire burnt and filled the area with smoke. One could see rats and cats and dogs running about. A few of the firemen tried to enter the house but it was useless, too much fire and smoke. And after the fire, the body was dragged out of the remains of the house. For her, for Sally it seemed only to be a great adventure, but when she found out the house had lost its insurance policy for lack of updating its insurance payments (evidently the mother was lacking in funds), she said nothing, and simply returned to Paris on the first train she could find out of London, almost indifferent about the whole mess.

“She must also be killed,” said the Professor to Mr. Durant, “whenever she returns and most likely it was her who set that fire in London last week. I bet she is in town now. To bad they did not put two and two together and figure out Mr. Sexton was the real killer, thus, we’d not have to do the job of killing her would we?”
Mr. Durant nodded his head in agreement.
Early the next morning, both Mr. Durant and the Professor sat idle in their carriage by Mr. Sexton’s apartment building waiting for Sally. In spite of all the havoc she caused in London, and now finding out her husband had been murdered, she still felt she was the cleaver one of the two, perhaps just not finding the proper use of her deadly skills. But her mind would never be the same, and the Professor knew this.
What Sally liked the most was that she was becoming famous, or infamous, only that she’d like to have had her picture taken for the papers, instead of being called the unknown woman with the famous husband.
A few people showed up for the funeral of her late husband, to include Mr. Durant and the Professor. Actually afterwards they had tea and coffee at a local café.
“How was your experiment?” she asked he Professor, innocently.
“You don’t really know?” he commented.
“Now how could I,” she said with a smile.
“I would be honored to know,” she asked again.
Then appeared Lord Hamcater and sat with the threesome.
“I’ve been wondering Professor Greenwood where in heaven’s name have you two been? Have you not heard of the murders going on in Paris; it is the biggest thing you will ever have a chance to talk about.”
As they sat and looked at one another speechless, a new person became interested in the conversation, and stood close by listening, it was Doctor Hucklebone, Mr. Durant’s family doctor. He could see the worry on his face, and wondered what had made him that way; he was mostly a happy, unmarried bachelor.
“I get the feeling,” said Lord Hamcater, “you’ve discovered something big, and you are keeping it from us at the club, which you have not been for six months or so?”
“Lord Hamcater, you are an old friend are you not,” said the Professor, “and I must be careful of course, so that what I’ve learned doesn’t get out of hand.”
“But perchance, we can all benefit from it, tell me what you are up to?” asked Lord Hamcater.
Then Dr. Hucklebone, took note of the woman’s name wrote it down, and felt he’d perhaps visit her later, find out what this experiment was all about that they were talking about, he himself knew Mr. Durant and the Professor wrote many articles for the magazines in Paris, and perhaps he could pickup something out of this, and make a few bucks.

That evening, Professor Greenwood and Mr. Durant sat cozy around a fire in a hearth at Mr. Durant’s home, trying to figure out their next step.
“Conceivably we should let in Lord Hamcater on our secret, he knows a lot of people that could help us, we really do not know what we are doing,” said Mr. Durant to the Professor.
“Well, we end up with the same problem, he will call the police, and we get it now for murder, and no one can prove she did a thing, and I doubt Hamcater will want to be in on this anyhow. He will not care how we created madness in a woman’s head, madness she doesn’t even know she has. And if I feed this into his head, we got the same trouble all over again. It is best we destroy the book, it is cursed, and perhaps we are also.”
“Sometimes,” said Mr. Durant, “I think you are right, but should we not be fearful of her, she is in Azaz’el’s world is she not, and she can’t stop on her own now no matter what, I am a coward, you must be brave!”


—About this time, Doctor Hucklebone took matters into his own hands. He was about the age of the Professor, sixty or so, a short, but large boned man, he arrived by carriage to Mrs. Sexton’s apartment. He climbed the stairs, a bit warns out at the top, knocked at her apartment door, and she let him in, after a short introduction.
“I wonder,” said Dr. Hucklebone trying to find out what the Professor wanted with the Sexton’s, “just what were these two fellows up to with you Mrs. Sexton?”
But he of course only cared about the experiment so he could make money; it was really no concern to him what carelessness he did, and at this point he simply needed to put together the puzzle.
“I’m not sure what he did,” commented Sexton, “only that he lived here for six weeks, gave us some money—my husband and I, and hummed at night some chants, which seemed to give me some dreams that brought me back to a period of time where there was a great huge angelic war of sorts, the main person being called by the name Azaz’el, and in my dreams, he commanded a group of angels that taught humans how to war, to kill, such things like that. This Azaz’el one day found me, and made me his dragon, he took me from my husband and made love to me, he became a giant eel, and ate all those around me as if they were sheep—such are my dreams and seemingly reality.”
“It seems to me it was more on the order of a nightmare than a dream,” commented the doctor.
“I remember in one of these dreams, several angelic beings held a meeting, they wanted to stop Azaz’el, but he was too powerful, and it seemed like the Professor continued to chant at night his spellbinding words, lines of words, and it got to me and I had to dress like those folks in the days when they wore tunics. But I became more powerful by the name being fed me.”
The doctor was quite taken in by all this; he drank down the tea she offered slowly.

Meanwhile, Professor Greenwood and Mr. Durant continued their conversation, leaving out their old friend Lord Hamcater. It was the following day the police found Doctor Hucklebone with a broken neck laying sideways in his carriage. And it was at this juncture, Sally Sexton, was starting to figure out, that the Professor had inserted some kind of demonic being inside her by magic spells by way of enchantments, or so it felt. One that seemed she was forced to allow being subjected to its character-will of its invader. As if the demon needed a shell to act out his evilness, and she was it. What little control she had was surfaced seldom, and raised to the surface by chance, and timing, when the invader was off guard.



The Enchantment Spells of Azaz’el
The chief demonic archangel
Part Two of Three

Azaz’el the Archangel


—Sally Sexton decided to speak to the Professor about her situation. And when they met at the Café de Flora, she voiced her opinion saying, “It isn’t right for me to have to be aggressive so much, I am now different, and it seems to be getting worse as the time goes by, for my sake what can I do professor?”
(That same day, earlier, Lord Hamcater had asked the Professor what Doctor Hucklebone was doing in that neighborhood where he got killed; it was a strange place for him to be. The Professor simply looked dumbfounded at his question.)
“Do I have a strange disease in me Professor that makes me become so aggressive?” asked Sally.
As she waited for the Professor’s answer she wondered how much Mr. Durant had to do with all of this also.
“I’m happy to find you in your right mind,” said the Professor, “I heard your husband is dead.”
“I guess so; I never did get to see him after I went to visit my mother in London.” She replied.
“You have through your openness, allowed Azaz’el the angelic renegade, who transports himself in demonic form nowadays, into your essence, your character, with my assistance of course.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Sally.
“I have an ancient manuscript, concerning the enchantment spells of Azaz’el, the chief demonic archangel of the Watchers, of the era prior to the Great Flood, about 4000 BC, I applied them to you during the weekend we stayed at your house, and during your dream state, perhaps more like a nightmare came about, and you were open to him to enter you—him being Azaz’el, the angelic renegade, perhaps because you felt it was part of the project, and it was, but I never knew it would go this far.”
“And so, Professor, I must go on killing, and hope this creature will leave me willingly. Is this my fate?”
“There is no reversal spells to return you to normal that I saw in the book, I suppose we have to plead to the occupant, to leave you!” said the Professor.
One of the problems that was developing was, Sally could no longer go to work, or anyplace not quite knowing what or when or how deep this person inside of her would absorb into her character dominating her personality, and leave her in a state of sleep as he went around using her as a shell to operate with.

For fun, Sally started making boats out of the paper mates their coffee cups were placed under, and upon; she sent one sailing in the air, as the Professor looked at her oddly, her face slowly growing grotesque, distorted, angry and arrogant. All this was bad enough, you might conclude, but knowing there was no solution and something at this very moment taking over her moment, Sally just shook her head, and shook it and shook and shock it, almost wildly, then tried to get her composure back, it was as if she had lost here equilibrium for a instant—it was all too much. Her second paper mate was transformed into another ship—she looked about, everyone at the restaurant was busy eating, being served, or paying. She told herself: he doesn’t seem to realize the damage he has done (a voice told her ‘Get revenge, now!’): perhaps some his enchanting has warned off on him. Then without another thought she cast the boat into his open mouth as he yawned, it got lodged deep in his throat, he started choking: “You are like a child Professor,” she said, “a child with nothing to do, so you get others in trouble, now die.”
She got up from her table and walked away as if nothing had happened, as the Professor tried aimlessly to dislodge the paper boat, he even grabbed a knife thinking to cut open his throat and let air in but it was all to late, he rocked back in his chair, and his body shook a tinge, and his head fell onto the table.

About the same time, Lord Hamcater was visiting Mr. Durant at his home, questioning him on what was the experiment about. Mr. Durant decided to tell all and bring Hamcater up to date. He was of curse horrified, but remained curious and enthralled.

Azaz’el seemed to be interested in everything, it was a new life for him, for he had been dormant within those ancient pages for 4000-years; and now again, Sally was silent, and Azaz’el was speaking on her behalf.
As Sally searched the streets along the Seine River, near the cathedral of Notre Dame, she got thinking, how lucky the Professor had been to have had a friend like Mr. Durant, she was incompletely dominated by Azaz’el at this time, to be more specific, she was slowly being enveloped throughout the day, this day by him as he was coming and going, and so she got to make sense out of the day and at moments had a clear head, as she walked where he lead her, and then leave, and she’d find herself unexpectedly at the Cathedral, or the Arch of Triumph.
She knew Mr. Durant liked the river, and liked to walk along side it, because the river calmed him. Exactly what she was going to do if he met him she was not certain, but he was on her mind for some odd reason. All and all, and in particular today, it all seemed so troublesome trying to figure out exactly what she was up to from one moment to the next moment, she didn’t know what she was doing nowadays for the most part.
The walk was noisy, new fangled machines, they called automobiles were running back and forth, and horse drawn carriages, and people, many people were walking the streets. Paperboys screaming, trying to sell papers, Jack also was among those selling papers; then she found herself all alone on a bridge crossing over and onto the island the cathedral was next to on the other side, she stood looking over into the river in the center of the bridge.

—Said Mr. Durant to Lord Hamcater, “We must get rid of Sally!”
“You are my friend, as bad as she is; maybe some of that demonic residue has fallen into your blood as well!” Mr. Durant looked angry at Lord Hamcater: how dare him insult me, insinuate such a thing.
“That is quite the slur,” said Mr. Durant. (But it was perhaps as close to the truth, as anybody could get.)
Mr. Durant gave Lord Hamcater the reserve saying in so many words: read and see for yourself and keep it safe if something happens to me: Hamcater simply kept it in is hands fearful to open it almost apprehensive to hold it.
“I need to meet the Professor at the Café de Flora, see you later,” he told Lord Hamcater, leaving him standing in his living room as Durant rushed out of the home, and walked down the street, noticed Sally on the bridge, and walked towards her.

“Mrs. Sexton, what brings you here?” asked Mr. Durant, he and Sally now standing but a few feet from one another the river under them.
“I was looking for you. I guess I have been feeling useless, since this new creature has entered my body. And I just got through talking to the Professor and he says there is not a thing to be done as for now about this so called possession. Maybe the Church can help?”
“That never occurred to me, but yes, why not give it a try,” said Mr. Durant; so they both started walking together to the Church. But again, there appeared trouble.
“Too much, too much to endure,” the young woman said, her head bobbing back and forth, getting more dizzy by the moment, her body shaking, foam coming from her mouth (Mr. Durant holding his breath as if the world was coming to an end, not knowing what to do), the river looking as if it had eyes and wanting to eat her up, it all was too, too much to endure, she kept telling herself…and jumped—one leg after the other, over the railing of the bridge, falling flat on her back onto, and into the river, her spine snapped, her head jerked, and cracked, as she drowned, what the last breath left inside her lungs: right then and there, her body limp—jerking, for she knew not how to dive, nor swim, but of course she knew that, and perhaps was the reason she chose at that particular moment to take her life that way.
A moment later, one could see, Mr. Durant turn pale green, a charcoal form around the inner part of his eye sockets, as he looked upon her body, and swiftly like a vortex something leaving it: it was Azaz’el, thought Mr. Durant.
At the other end of the bridge, Lord Hamcater stood watching, book in hand, which he had not yet opened.
Mr. Durant started running, freighted the source would enter him, that he was its next victim, for it now needed a home, and the force tried to catch him: the source was likened to a twisted wind, a tornado.
“I don’t want your help, Durant, you should be grateful to me; I have shown you magic that works. The Christians will not let us move around inside them, and there are many places I want to go and operate, but I need a shell, so stop, let me enter—you!” proclaimed the source as it followed Mr. Durant like a shadow down and across the bridge.
They both now stopped running, Mr. Durant worn out—hugging and puffing holding his chest, his ribs sore, his legs muscles aching, tender from the run, Azaz’el smirking and not a hard breath did he release; Mr. Durant stood still, said with a gun in hand, “When you enter me, the trouble starts I saw it, and I suppose you have to do what you have to do, and you need me…at times I think your residue has already infected me, but I always knew you were not in me yet, I think the Professor and I were simply your plan B and C.”

During this time Lord Hamcater was watching all these new events. He saw them just standing there looking at one another, as Mr. Durant’s heart beat faster, and he saw him holding a gun, and the source shaking his head, trying to talk him out of doing whatever his intentions were to do, then there was a shot, and Mr. Durant’s right side of his face blew off its skull, his teeth showed, yet he remained alive, he didn’t know how he looked, then he fell to the ground on one knee, and shot his brains out.

—After several minutes, this dark mist came towards Lord Hamcater, said, “I am one of the two-hundred ancient renegades, angelic beings of the time of Enoch. If you wish to know all the secrets God has told the angels before the world was created, open up the book, and place your right hand over the enchantments, and accept me as your teacher. You see my friend, the world was not ready for us back then, or now, but you, you I think are. We were hated by the inhabitants back then, but the folks wanted to use our powers, as Mr. Durant did and the Professor, but power comes with
a price, you and I can make a blood agreement, and you will not end up like Mr. Durant just did.”
Lord Hamcater thought on this for a moment, this could even bring back an old race to the world, this book and this angelic being.
“Enoch long ago, said in so many words, I had to stop seeing the people of earth, that it was God’s will, and what happened was, I was buried under tons of unmovable rocks, until the good Professor took them off me. Everyone has tried to stop me for my second comeback. But you see I’ve arrived. If you go with me, bullets and guns and knifes and all sorts’ of weapeonry will not harm you, how can they, I will be the absorber, and I will only dominate you lightly.”
“Sorry, sir, but you will not allow me to leave your domination, and I will have to work all my days trying to dig a way out from your grips.”
Then he tossed the book over the bridge, into the river, and it seemed by chance, a boat had come by, fished it out with a net, it was young Jack, the paperboy, selling papers up and down the river, to tourists as their boats went by his.


Noyllopa the Demon
And Jack the Paperboy
Part Three of Three



Noyllopa the Demon


As Azaz’el escaped the dead body, he ordered Noyllopa, a demonic spirit nearby, who was in the body of a woman, a young female, to watch the boy, Jack, “Come here Jack,” Molly Clemens, a tourist from America yelled (she was about Jack’s, age, fourteen). She was pretty as a daisy, with light blond hair, and just starting to bud, like a flower in the right places. Jack looked her way as he was starting to wipe off the water that covered the leather that protected the pages within the ancient book which were saggy. He put the book down, and started to row to the dock area, as Molly walked down the steps from the Paris streets to the walkway along side the river. Noyllopa had suggested she do that, and fed her another suggestion to ask him the boy for a ride in his boat, thus securing the book—his intentions were to get the book at any cost.
The boy had long wavy dark brown hair and a white shirt on, wore a long vest with deep pockets he put his change in from selling his papers.
Another boat came by Jack’s; a man screamed out from it, “You’re blocking traffic, move you boat—boy!”
A police man from onto of the bridge was screaming something, the girl wasn’t sure why she was doing what she was doing, but she guessed Jack was cute, and thought that must be the reason, and said to herself: I’ll see if I can get a ride across to the other side, where Notre Dame is.
For that moment the whole world seemed to be in this little corner, the police the boat man, Azaz’el, now by the police officer, the boy almost next the dock and Molly.
“Bring me over to the other side,” asked Molly to the boy.
Suddenly the young man saw within the girl, Noyllopa, as if he had second insight, and the demon saw this, saw that he could see into both worlds, his and theirs, and saw him plainly as if he was physical, he was an aurora around her—steaming out of her, and with madness and carelessness, the demon forced the girl’s hand up into the air, and like a slug hammer, hit Jack so hard, he fell back into the boat several feet, stung by the pain of it all, the whole world seemed dark to him now, then Molly grabbed the book—it had fallen out of the boy’s hands onto one of the wooden sitting places inside the rowboat, turned about, then started to run up the steps the same one she had walked down to the top along the Paris streets and the bridge around the corner, not knowing exactly why she did what she did.
Jack being of a Godly boy in nature, waking up from the power hit and knowing now he was facing two deadly inhuman beings—started to pray. He saw the invisible Azaz’el standing by the police; and Azaz’el didn’t like the idea the boy praying, nor did the demon, who made it a police to avoid those folks with Godly spirits—as he was once told: it is a squander of time with those folks, when you have the rest of the world at your feet.

(Meanwhile, Mr. Durant was being picked up by an ambulance and brought to the mortuary.)

“Tell me miss, what has happened?” Asked the police officer looking at the boy, as the girl ran with the book into the officer’s hands.
“I think the boy want’s to kill me,” said Molly.
“Do you know Jack?” asked the police officer.
She was not sure why she said what she said, evidently he knew Jack registered in her mind as she searched for a response, and it would seem Jack had a good reputation.
“You must talk to the boy.” Said Molly, but the police simply looked at Molly dumfounded, and he leaned over to call Jack to join him and straighten things out, for it was all confusing to him, and it showed in his face, then Molly seemed to panic, and her hands hit the railing on the bridge, the police officer tried to calm her down, and by some kind of hidden strength, she grabbed the officer by his belt, pulled upward and lifting him as if he was actually light, and pushed him over the railing—it all happened so fast, in a clap of an eye you might say, and the officer fell head first into the river breaking his neck when he hit the water. No one saw a thing, but several people looked, after hearing a scream and loud splash.

(—Azaz’el, is now conversing, telepathically with Noyllopa, whom is inside of Molly: “We must get rid of the boy, he can see us, and can cast us into the dogs and cats, who knows what else, he believes in the Messiah, the Christ, and we cannot enter him, yet he can do us damage.”)

The girl remains frozen for the moment, looking at the police officer drown, and floating like a balloted raft down the river. The boy is staring likewise at Molly, and the policeman, and is oddly shocked, he says to himself: she doesn’t even know what she just did. Next, the boy mumbles aloud: “I see two races of aliens, demonic and angelic. I cannot argue with them, especially the demon in Molly, and I sense the angelic one wants to enter Molly and keep the demon inside her dominating both—once and for all, so he can operate from and out of, her.”
He looks over to Notre Dame Cathedral; ‘I wonder,’ he thinks, ‘can I cast them into one of those gargoyles on the church, it seems most befitting? —they can live their lives out in those stones!”

(Azaz’el) “We can’t allow that boy to trample on our world…” Azaz’el, says to Noyllopa, but Noyllopa knows these angelic beings are full of pride and this time it will be at his expense, for he had been in Molly for a few months now, and her personality was changing to his, it was like cooking a frog alive in hot water, slowly, and unnoticeable, and now she was shaking her head trying to figure out what and why she just did what she did. The demon was upset with Azaz’el for disrupting his long worked out plan.
“And suppose we cannot trample on that kid, monsters are slain also you know,” said Noyllopa to Azaz’el, adding, “he might have opened up the book, had you given him a chance.”
Noyllopa was blaming Azaz’el for his witless decisions.
“I guess Noyllopa; there will be war with you, and the boy against me!” said Azaz’el.
Noyllopa knew he could not fight an angelic being, and especially an archangel, even though he was weakened after his fall from grace, he was still a powerful force; and he, Noyllopa, was a much less powerful force, what you would call a lesser spirit.
Azaz’el tried to enmesh himself into the girl, not thinking Noyllopa would leave, but he did, he released the girl from bondage, and Azaz’el was furious, for he wanted and needed both of them together so he could dominate without being asked by her actions or spells to enter, thus, he was invading a house he was not allowed to, since Noyllopa left, and Jack saw this, and Noyllopa ran quickly across the bridge, looking behind him as he ran, as the boy followed with his eyes.
Noyllopa knew there was a good chance he would have been cast into one of those horses if the boy known anything about such things and he sensed he did. Now the girl was encircled with this new being, and the boy yelled, “Do not open the book!” it was in her hands. She was free of this demonic being and had a clear head now.
“What just took place,” yelled Molly to Jack, it was like an awakening.
“Come back here with the book, “Jack yelled, standing in the boat alongside of the dock, and she followed his orders.

“Spirits from another time can live in our time,” said the boy to Molly, “there is one trying to get inside of you now, and one that left, he wants you to open up the book, I think it is cursed, and will suck you into his world, so he can incorporate you, give me the book—I will destroy it!”
She leaned over towards the boat, book in hand, said then, “All you say is impossible, I think you want to get the book and sell it, it is perhaps very valuable!”
“You have no idea of what this spirit being can do, end his quest, I will rip out the pages and drawn the book,” said the boy.
Now Molly pulled herself back just before Jack could get the book. A great stillness followed, finally a giant roar, “It came from the book,” she dropped the book, it opened, the pages were now clear to her eyes.
“The book will try to kill you, or its owner!” said Jack.
“Perhaps this is as much their world as ours,” said Molly, she was now reading the first paragraph of the opening of the book.
“It says Jack, if you will listen, and she started to read, head down following each line of the words that now had transformed into English from the old Albanian dialect:
‘We have brought something new to the world, and whoever possesses this libretto, those you cast a spell on, will not be able to fight it. You will have power to scatter your ideas around this world, and make people subject to you. They will not be able to fight for themselves with your new power, which will make you much more important,’ you see Jack, you and I can be important; we will be able to see things man cannot. We will grow and grow in power, until the earth is subdued by us, no longer simply a footstool. We will grow until our spirits drive fear into the world.”

She had not noticed at that moment anyhow, until she lifted up her head, and turned it back to where Jack and his boat were, she had not noticed, but now did that Jack was halfway across the river going to the Cathedral, as she now had finished her speech; thereupon, she put one hand on the book, the other pointing into the sky towards the heavens. And that was the last time she had ever saw Jack, and Jack kept rowing, and never looked back.



Note: Reference to “The Cursed Libretto,” written in the late hours, 2:00 AM, of 4-6-2008 ((Part One: 7-pages or 3585-words)(Part Two 4-6-2008 8:19 PM: three pages, 5090-words, or: 2080-words), or The Enchantment spells of Azaz’el, the chief demonic archangel)). Noyllopa the Demon, added into the story 4-7-2007, 6:00 PM; finished 9:59 PM); 1368-words written today. Total, 6, 587. Pictures drawn by the author, Notre Dame drawn 12-2004; the demon drawn, January, 2006. Azaz’el, drawn May, 2004. On the evening of 4-7-2008 first part of the book was edited; and during the day 4-8-2008, the second part of the book was edited by Dennis Siluk.. Third part edited, and more words added. Almost 3000- words were added during the first editing. (Words: 7923). Completed editing 10:58 PM.
















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Saturday, April 05, 2008

Testimony of a Dead Soul

Testimony of a Dead Soul
(The Blood-red Moon)


Advance: Don’t be fooled, dead souls live—it is one of the seventy-two deaths, and yet it can die, that also is one of the seventy-two deaths. I saw where they go, they flock, and they toil, and they lay cowed in corners, and they go on a journey, over the Canyon of Dread…and much, much more…! But this is the first time I’ve yet heard of a dead soul (and saw with my own eyes) it go where it did. Here now is what I saw and heard during one dilemma of an escape— here is the testimony of one dead soul!

In the quiet of a dreadful night—newly dead souls go on their last plight, their testimonies never to be told or heard (until the last judgment), but here I shall tell of one I saw, after the light and dark angels came to take this dead life to be: into its deep, pitted, entwined hushed skies, dim and cold were the sounds, around his soul’s entombed skeleton—he waited. His heart, frostbite; to his brain, numbness came, produced dead tissue, even gangrene seemed to seep in; here the stars guard heaven, silently stone-frozen overhead! Here, yes, here is where he thought to meet peace—rather he found he had to wait for the archangel, or hell’s representative, called the beast to be taken onto his journey’s end.
Remote, no ears to hear the clutter of a million words coming into the mind, to entrench the throat: here, oh yes here you are dead to the living world, and for a moment, just a moment ago you were there, now this moment is new you know not where you are, —but have a good guess where you are going: here the sky has eternal eyes looking down on you, eyes with cosmic tides—waves that make your head sway, break and sway, as all you sins are weighted, and a war rises in your chest, unrest, and you see the pit, the abyss, ebbing, and angels on each side of the hour glass, far-reaching, and waiting for prejudgment: the heavens above, and his numbing face—now changeless, and slowly he notices a strange peace—defeat, and silently the dark, the eldritch dark, has little relevance, his eyes are simply staring, in the cold, oddly numbed looking space: feet feeling for bridges to find balance, he feels he is on a limb of a tree.

And he sees Kings and Queens, and rock stars, and once famous human beings, heading with dark colored demonic beings with wide stretched out charcoal wings, into a canyon of flames, blazing firmaments— yea! Those who thought death was silence in the grave are now moaning to their hosts, “Why me!” others cry “I hope there is no immortality” and still others joke, “I see foes and enemies,” for the moment there is no harmony, only a perpetual cosmic dust storm all about, and dim is the sun, and he is handed a book, his book of sins, and he looks up towards heaven, but he gets no tidings, and now heaven has a face, one it says: “Who is he?” he knows the only thing he ever gave to heaven was disgrace, whence he cried, makes no difference, yea has died, the sum of his days is weighted with his sins, mindlessly he has played the game—the ten-winged beast has laid before his loins: to include: human greed, the lack of mercy, cursed Christ and gave to Satan, the deeds of he Holy Spirit (yes, he committed the unpardonable sin): and now he realizes it has always been in his hands, and somehow, he seems to adjust to the darkness quite well, no sign of tears nowhere, and yea, he sees the kind of moon, he lived under, “…blood-red.”

I see no sign of tears, no tears, I wonder why; I hear an angel whisper with fainting breath, almost silent, “…a blood-red moon means, he protests death, wants to see it annulled, yet he neither wants to go to heaven, for his soul says so, he would not fit among the saints, he would not be able to war with them, lie or cheat, nor does he care for the devil’s creed, where all are equal, with deceiving hearts, ill will, lies, and anything goes if it pleases thee—thus, he wants rule for the many. With his spectral mind, I think he will pick quiet and still-peace, strange as it seems the eternal grave is where he seeks.”
Eh! Yes! Oh yes, I saw and heard all this, and I learned that the death journey has a midnight sky with watchful eyes; I was one of those peering into this dying dreadful face, with barbaric deep eyes; it was if he was given a choice, divine it seemed, and divided was he, and expired was his will, he wanted to remain unaltered, and back on earth, with the same untouched corruptness in his veins, but earth didn’t want him anymore, no more than heaven. Hell didn’t care, they had many like him already, he was but half as bad as those he’d face, damaged destructed corroded souls, flames in their human frames, and he didn’t want to face them, as a result he chose none, but his heart preferred the chose of everlasting silence in the grave, one of the seventy-two deaths. And he looked at Teiai’el the Lesser (of the order of lesser angelic beings), said “He looks unbiased, let him chose for me,” and he did just that, and found himself in an aquarium, swimming around like a dead-bat fish, everyone looking in, and he looking out—knowing the torment on the day of the Great White Judgment— was yet to come, hence, he’d have to go through all this again: and perhaps this was his due punishment for all his sins.

And this was my friends, his testimony; I give it on his behalf, a stranger I once met on a lonely path, in the mists and transfer from life to the next.


4-5-2008 ((#2347) (written at home in the afternoon, in Lima, Peru on a Saturday, the sun baking the city below it))

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