The Long Hard Road Out of Hell

neck.
    John stepped into the middle of the circle, and paged through the book to find the right incantation.
    A metallic crash, much louder than the previous sound, echoed from downstairs. If whatever we had begun to do had any powers, we weren’t ready for them. The alcohol in our blood turned to adrenaline and we ran—down the stairs, out the window and into the forest until we were breathless, sweaty and dry-mouthed. Dusk had fallen, and a few raindrops splattered around us. We avoided the sewer pipe, stumbling the rest of the way home through the woods as quickly as possible in complete silence.
    By the time we were safely back in John’s house, his brother was hopelessly stoned, roaming the house dazed and red-eyed. The drugs had worn down his aggressive edge, and he seemed almost sedate, which wasn’t any less frightening than when he was manic. A snow-white cat was cradled in his arms, and he kept stroking it.
    â€œThat cat’s his familiar,” John whispered to me.
    â€œHis familiar?”
    â€œYeah, it’s like a demon that’s taken on animal form to help my brother with his magic.”
    This pure white, innocent-looking cat instantly transformed into a malevolent, dangerous creature in my mind. John’s brother set it on the ground, and it just sat there with its ears pinned back, staring straight at me through shining green eyes. Suddenly, its lips pulled back over its teeth and it began hissing at me.

    â€œMan, that cat’s gonna kill you,” John said in a successful attempt to frighten me even more. “When you go to sleep, she’s gonna scratch your eyes out and then bite off your tongue when you try to scream.”
    His brother looked us both over, glanced down at the cat, and said quietly, “Come on, let’s go upstairs.” And that was it: We didn’t have to sneak behind his back or play detective. We were allowed to enter the forbidden room: Maybe John’s spell to open the gates of hell had worked.
    Though it was new and exciting to me, the room was exactly what you’d expect from a rural wastoid with a penchant for Satan. There was a black light shining on a poster of the grim reaper on a horse, half a dozen Ozzy Osbourne photos and red candles everywhere. In the back of the room stood a small altar draped in black velvet and surrounded by lit candles. But on top of it, instead of a skull or a pentagram or a sacrificed rabbit, there was a tall cylinder of yellowed glass with what looked like piss water inside. The gun sat threateningly on a table near the bed.
    â€œWanna smoke?” John’s brother asked, lifting the cylinder off the altar.
    â€œSmoke what?” I asked dumbly. I’d never even touched a bong or smoked pot before.
    â€œThe wacky weed,” John grinned devilishly at me.
    â€œThat’s alright, man. I don’t do that stuff anymore,” I lied unconvincingly.
    Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice. It soon became apparent that John and his brother were going to beat the shit out of me if I didn’t smoke their drugs.
    John’s brother lit up the bong, which was already filled with crumbled brown leaves, and took a Herculean puff, filling the room with sickly sweet smoke when he exhaled. I hacked and coughed through my first drags, but I soon felt it. Combined with the Mad Dog 20/20, the Southern Comfort, the bottle of wine being passed around and the Blizzard of Ozz album playing in the room, it sent my head reeling. The fact that nobody liked me at school began to fade out of my mind like blue Magic Marker reminders scrawled on the back of a greasy fist.
    I sat there dizzily, cycling in and out, as John’s brother began ranting. His face was flushed and twisted, and he was naming dozens of ancient spirits and demons he planned to conjure up and order to kill people: teachers who had failed him, girlfriends who had dumped him, friends who had betrayed him, relatives who had mistreated him, employers who had fired him—basically anyone who had crossed his path since he was old enough to feel hatred.
    Pulling a switchblade out of his pocket, John’s brother made a long slice along the surface of his thumb and let it drip into a small bowl filled with a crusty brown-and-white flecked powder. “Bad Angarru!” he began chanting. “Ninnghizhidda! Thee I invoke, Serpent of the Deep! Thee I invoke, Ninnghizhidda, Horned Serpent of the Deep! Thee I invoke,