The Curse of Baphomet
by Horns

Wearing the old, red fez he’d found in a forgotten storage crate in his cellar, John Keyes put the mouth of the bottle up to his lips.

Canadian whisky.

He swallowed hard, grimaced at the powerful, rich taste.

"I needed that," he declared, huffing.

With one hand, he pulled off the hat. Surprisingly enough, after thirty years it’d still fit his knobby head perfectly. He held it out and, using his thumb, diddled with the black tassel. He stared reminiscently at the symbol it carried, composed of a scimitar, an Egyptian head, a moon shape, and a star. Yes, a long time ago he’d proudly worn it upon his head - the one year he was a Shriner.

Once a member always a member?

He took another drink, winced a bit, placed the bottle on the bookshelf, and then wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

Not quite sounding normal because of the dampness in his throat, he uttered, "I will protect and defend the unsullied honor of any Noble of the Mystic Shrine, when absent, if assailed; and now upon this sacred book, by the sincerity of the Moslem's oath I here register this irrevocable vow, subscribing myself bound thereto as well as binding myself by the obligation of the prerequisite to this membership, that of a Knight Templar or that of a 32nd degree A. and A. Scottish Rite Mason."

He grinned happily. Amazingly, he’d remembered some of the oath, called it up easily, too. At once, his posture and expression changed. A tragic memory surfaced that caused his eyes to lower in guilt. He took on a downcast look; his body drooped a little. He dragged over to his recliner, plopped into it. Almost as if in physical pain, he laid the fez in his lap and rested his head, lowering the back of the chair, raising the foot.

In his mind he saw the event again. He was driving a parade car-an orange-colored miniature one-swerving, slowing, speeding, moving in precision formation. The street was crowded with watchful eyes, children and adults standing and seated along the edge of the sidewalk. Some of them cheering; many of them quietly observing the show in a state of wonder. He’d driven in several parades before without incident, but this time fate was gonna see it differently. One of the cars in front of him suddenly had a mechanical problem right at the point of acceleration and came to a screeching halt. What took place next was determined by split-second reaction. He jerked the car to avoid a collision, was forced to cut it hard again when he caught a kid running toward him in his peripheral, but couldn’t regain control enough to keep from hitting a gentleman who was walking in the street, a few feet away from the curb. Not much later he would learn that the man was the deacon of a local Baptist church, who’d been handing out flyers. He would soon shortly after find out that it wasn’t exactly the impact of the car that had killed the man, but only that it was the cause of why he’d died. The fellow had been toppled with such force that he’d hit his head violently against the concrete curb. And its result had been fatal.

John bolted upright in the chair. The last images to come to him shocked him as much as they horrified him. He’d forgotten about it, not simply just over the years, but even at the time.

Why did I just remember that?

He grabbed up the fez in both hands, denting it slightly. Hands shaking, heart beat quickening, he inspected it. Turning it. Flipping it. Would it be there now? A trace of it still visible?

That terrible day, when things had gone out of control, the fez had been shaken free from his head. Not surprising considering the amount of jarring he’d sustained. But whether or not in the immediate aftermath and the years that followed had his mind closed off the memories of certain graphic details, now, it all seemed to fill his skull like a flash flood, a deluge of screams, blood and death. The man lying in the street, his legs twitching, a sick gurgling in his throat, the side of his face and his eye closest to the ground drenched in blood, and underneath his head a widening pool . . . glossy crimson oozing over sun-warmed blacktop. The police pushing everybody back. Gasps in the crowd. He relived reaching for the fez as it lay on its side in a spot of the dying man’s blood.

He stopped moving the cap. Something caught his eye. Along the side of it, very faint, possibly a small blotch, just a tiny streak, maybe. It was extremely difficult to distinguish with the fez itself being red, of course. He leaned sideways in his chair and adjusted the lampshade for better light. He checked, squinting. There it was. A minuscule change in color tone. But could he be certain? Perhaps it had just faded over time? Marks caused by specks of dust or some other tiny particles?

Eyes becoming big, suddenly, it crossed his mind: What am I doing?

He set the fez on the table, pushed it next to the lamp, then fixed the shade.

It was an accident. There wasn’t anything I could do to-.

Trying hard to forget, he settled back into the recliner, digging his fingers into the soft leather arms, sighing once before closing his eyes. He pushed the uninvited past out of his head. He pictured playing golf with the fellows and Betty Draper, his sweetheart at the club, before nodding off.

In a long, candlelit, carpeted room, John wandered. He edged toward a fancy mahogany altar near the center. This was vaguely familiar to him. On the altar sat a single oversized, white candle in a simple brass holder. He came closer, placed both his hands on the surface, gazed into the flickering flame. A cold chill passed through him, and suddenly he felt the presence of others, sensed eyes watching him from the blackness skirting the candles. Then, there were whispers. It struck him; he remembered now. This was a room inside the Shrine Temple, the same lodge where he was initiated into the Ancient Arabic Order Nobles of the Mystic Shrine, and to his knowledge, the only Temple not publicly listed.

Why was he here? He no longer participated, hadn’t been involved since the accident, kept no contact with the Nobles. So, why? Or better yet, how?

Sweet-smelling incense spiritized the air. From the far end, out of the dark, a hostile voice said, "John Keyes, by your own treacherous will you have betrayed the Mystic Shrine!"

The disturbing sound of it left him scared shitless.

"Irrevocable! John Keyes. Your obligation to the Order was sealed!"

He backed away. "Leave me alone," he mewled. "I got out. I quit."

Whirling around, he was confronted by a group of figures slowly bleeding forward from the shadows. Men, Shriners, each one wearing the identifying fez. Step by step, they fenced him in, pressing him backwards in the direction of the altar.

"What do you want?" he cried out.

He stood stiff, fixed himself to fight, but they didn’t grab him or make any threatening moves of the kind, instead, they simply advanced around him, as if he was in the way.

Nerves frizzled, he turned around. What he saw, both stunned and made him curious. Now standing near the altar was a larger group of men, who’d formed a circle around it. He watched the ones who’d passed by him blend into the others. Then a movement captured his attention. Someone’s head bobbing on the altar, just somewhat able to been seen above the assemblage. He could make out blond hair.

Driven by a force other than rational thought, he moved to investigate. He wedged his way into the crowd, moving through them as carefully as he possibly could to not draw attention. The overbold scent of Old Spice distracted him at first. In the front, spaced around the ring, a few men held lit candles. On the altar something unthinkable, outrageous, and utterly disgusting was taking place, so upsetting he initially looked away, it was all he could do to keep from screaming. A man and woman was copulating for all to see, right there on the altar. But it wasn’t strangers screwing in front of an audience, no, he knew them. There was Betty, his Betty, riding an erection that belonged to the Christian fellow who’d been killed in the parade accident. She was moaning with pleasure, sitting on top, rocking and bouncing fast. From the view he could assume she was taking it anally, taking it deep and hard, taking it without a care or any sign of embarrassment, whatsoever. Both were completely naked. And if seeing her in such a vulgar, nothing less than mind-blowing situation wasn’t bad enough, the appearance of the man tested his strength to remain standing and conscious to the highest possible level. The man’s head was bloodied, bearing the same fresh wound it had when it’d struck the curb. His hands clawed lustfully at her hips; his mouth, like a fish breathing air, opened and closed in pleasure with the rhythmic swaying of their bodies. The blood sluicing from the gash in his head made a puddle on the altar. It coated his hair, made it look thick, wet and shiny. And he had a hell of a lot on his face. As his head jerked, blood sprinkled Betty’s front side. There was a noticeable amount of it already on her chubby stomach and her large, gracefully sagging tits and her neck.

But that wasn’t the end of this nightmarish "Shrine Circus" presenting live pornography and terror. Yes, unfortunately, there was more madness to be witnessed as the men, one by one, stepped up to the altar on the side nearest to the man’s blood-covered head, and with reverence on their faces, took off the fez and dipped a small portion of the cap in the pool of blood that had formed there, chanting, "Blood of the Christian in honor of Allah!"

It all seemed utterly barbaric to him, not to mention, INSANE. He’d never felt such sheer horror to this extent since, well, the day he’d killed a man.

But I didn’t kill him, he’s right here, tearing up my best girl’s rear end! he thought, shaking his head incredulously.

Blind panic, that should’ve kicked in way before now, compelled him to get out. His vision blurred, he shoved, swung his fists, kicked, and would’ve done anything necessary to break through the strange souls gathered about him, but a huge figure stymied his escape.

His eyes widened in terror as he looked upon a monster. A giant with a goat’s head, complete with two dark, twisting horns jutting towards the heavens. On its forehead there was an upside-down star made of blood, self-evidently carved into its flesh. Strangely, on top of its head, rested a burning candle, identical to the one he’d seen on the mahogany table. He felt a rush of air as the beast fanned its enormous wings. The sight of its human, though, mixed-gendered body, was repulsive. A hairy masculine build with freakish breasts like that of a preadolescent girl, and with silver areolas.

He began to scream as he found himself trapped in the black stare of its cold, alien eyes. Then he sat up, wide-awake.

Covered in a layer of sweat, he felt it drip from his brow. His hands slipped on the leather as he got up.

A nightmare. That’s all it had been. A strange dream.

Shaken, he wobbled over to the bookshelves. He grabbed the bottle of whisky. As his trembling hands lifted the bottle, his eyes fell on the fez, still lying next to the lamp.

No, he told himself. Either I’m going crazy, or this is the problem.

He sat the bottle back down. It wasn’t like him to dream this way, to feel this way. Nervous, afraid, conjuring up such horrid, frightening, downright sickening mental pictures.

Blood of the Christian.

In his head he could hear the words, a distant chanting.

What did it mean?

Did it even mean anything at all?

He walked to his study. There, he sat down at his computer. His intention was to do an Internet search, but his MSN Messenger flashed an eBay notification in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, so he became sidetracked checking the details of a current auction he’d bid on. He wasn’t what most people could call a Net-junkie, because he hardly spent any time on-line. Originally he’d bought a computer just to manage his finances, maybe do his tax returns on it. But once he found eBay, he couldn’t avoid Internet surfing altogether. Finally free of distractions, he tried a search using the keywords: Shriner plus Christian plus Blood. The results weren’t what he’d hoped to find at first. Searches never were effortless, from his experience at least, definitely not like in the movies, that was for sure. After alternating on a number of search engines, he finally found a page that proved somewhat useful. He read quite a few pages of text.

"This is bizarre," he said, as he stood up.

What he’d discovered was a religious rationalization that to him would’ve made for a great X-Files episode, but was undauntedly disturbing when realized with his upsetting dream. The secret origins of the Shriners. The mysterious symbolisms. The hush-hush connections to Old Islam and the Knights Templar. The dipping of the fez in the blood of murdered Christians as to then be worn as a badge of honor.

How could he-a very sensible man-ignore the strikingly impossible coincidence of the dream and this information? Could he just dismiss it easily?

The phone rang.

He answered it. "Hello?"

"John?" a voice asked.

"Yes?"

"It’s Betty," the voice said.

Of course it was Betty, he should have recognized it at once, but she’d sounded different, sounded scared.

"Oh hi!"

"John, I hate to bother you-"

"It’s no bother, darling," he quickly added.

"John, I think someone’s inside my house. I heard a noise. Maybe I’m being silly?"

"Where are you now?"

"In the front room. It came from the basement."

John knew Betty wasn’t the skittish type, so whatever she’d heard was real, though maybe not threatening, and it had her scared. She lived alone, had for ten years since the passing of her husband.

"Okay, I’ll switch to three-way and call the police for you, that way you won’t have to hang up."

"Oh, you don’t have to call them, John. Goodness me, I’d feel dopey if they came out here and all it was was a cat or something."

"Would you like for me to come over? Check it out?"

There was a long pause.

"Well, I know it’s late and you probably don’t want to-"

"Don’t, baby, I’m stepping outside right as we speak."

"Thanks, Johnny. I’ll make it up to you," she said warmly.

They hung up.

I’ll make it up to you. Even with his best effort, he couldn’t block the images from the dream. Betty naked, having open sex, anal sex! And the blood on her. My God! The blood! It was definitely something he’d never share with her.

The sky was ominously dark. A storm was threatening the town, would likely be there by the time he’d gotten to her house. She lived a good thirty-five minutes away. Rain-touched winds slapped against him as he climbed into his car.

Probably just a basement window disturbed by the wind, he thought to himself, as he drove out of the driveway. But he couldn’t blame her for worrying, because even he felt this night was strange, somehow diabolically ugly.

Thunder and lightning shook up the sky. A steady rain made him turn on the windshield wipers as he guided the car off the highway and, now, along the private road. He was only minutes from her house. The headlights vied to show him a clear way against the tempestuous darkness, bordered by dense trees. Suddenly, something darted in front of him. He gasped as he yanked the wheel left and slammed on the brakes. But he wasn’t able to avoid hitting whatever it was that’d flashed by in his lights. A hard thump and the loss of the right headlight told him that. The beat of the wipers and sound of sheeting rain seemed deafening as he sat motionless for a minute.

Nervously, he left the car, stepped out onto the pebbly roadway. Using his hands to shield his eyes from the rain, he peered into the virtual blackness. He saw something in the road roughly thirty feet from where he was standing, thought he saw movement. Carefully, he went up to it. As he neared, nothing could have prepared him for what happened. He saw a arm raise.

No! God, no! Not a person! Please not a person!

Weakened, he padded closer. His worst fear was confirmed as he stood over someone’s body, could hear them moaning.

"I’m sorry," he wept.

"Johnny?" someone asked with a voice wracked by pain.

He fell to his knees, took the person into his arms.

"Betty?" he cried.

A bolt of lightning lightened up her face, that was wreathed by the hood of her raincoat. He saw watery blood spill down her chin, brimming over her lips as she struggled to speak to him.

His anguish-filled screams ripped through the stormy night as he hugged her tight.

"Johnny, I tried to come. I tried, Johnny . . . I left right after you called me."

He caressed the side of her face. "Shh, darling. Shh, it’s okay. I know. I know," he told her while sobbing.

"The car stopped." She coughed more blood. "It’s never done that before-"

"Shh."

He knew he had to get her help, felt her slipping away. Another streak of lightning lit the darkness, and he glanced and saw her car sitting on the shoulder of the road. Then, jerking his head he looked up into the vile eyes of the horned beast towering above him. The same monster from his dream. The large candle on its head kept burning in spite of the heavy rain.

Petrified, he could only squeeze Betty close and watch as the giant handed him a red fez. Stoned with utter terror, he reached out and took hold of it. He put it to his chest. He knew what the unholy thing wanted him to do with it. Removed, tears streaming down his wet face, he touched the cap to her chin, closed his eyes and dropped his head.

Again, lightning lit the night, shining off the curved blade of the sword the Baphomet held high, preparing to swing.

©2002 Horns

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