Old ghosts and wolves remembered
Writing today… slow, but steady… frequent interruptions, but I’m keeping me head in the moment, which is hard for me. I do my best writing when the stars are aligned, when I control my environment, like an alchemist and hermeticist, submerged in gnosis, wielding spells of ancient crafting to create worlds of wonder beneath cthonic skies…
The wolves are hungry and wanting fed. So too the wanton spirits of the departed, but it is not the flesh they seek to rend. The incorporeal are cannibals and seek their own…
I have returned to Cairnwood for a feast of fiends and a reunion of sorts.
Old ghosts cannot die, but they can sometimes be tamed.
It’s a cold, simple truth — everything dies. You. Me. The Sun, the moon, and stars, and the very Earth itself. All of it is finite. All except the soul. Souls are resilient bastards. To kill one of those takes some real metaphysical muscle. Breaking them’s easy though. Standing here in the god damn rain, I’m watching soul’s break all around me. Funerals are like that, especially this one, because the guy getting planted, well, he was my father, and a father to a hell of a lot people huddled together here today, crying like there’ll be no tomorrow. For most of them, there won’t be.
Let me back the fuck up. My name’s Autry. Brooks Autry, and I never really knew my parents. I was orphaned pretty young and lived by the seat of my pants for as long as I can remember. The guy being readied for his dirt nap kind of took me in, showed me what’s what and set me on a path. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Wasn’t easy for any of us, but Dr. Connors was the kind of guy that made you see the big picture, gave you a sense of purpose. See, the Doc was the kind of guy who shot it to you straight. He knew the world for what it really was, not the bull shit most people pretended it to be. He saw the light, but he didn’t deny the darkness. In fact, it was the darkness that drew him in, gave him his reason for being. That became our reason too. The darkness. We were the ones who stared it down and kept it from swallowing the world whole.
But now, Connors is as dead as a door nail, his soul traipsing about God’s back forty, or some such. I’m not worried though. He’s been dead before and come back. I suspect he’ll be back around for another go in short enough order. I’ve just got to bring in the proper witch to see it through.
His work’s not done. Not yet. See, I know in my heart that everything dies, but I also know that there are some souls that aren’t meant for rest, and Landon Connors’ soul’s one of those. He’s got work to do and I aim to see that he gets back to it.
The last time things went south for Connors, we turned to the Seidr Sisters to set things right. That won’t cut it this time around. No, this is going to require the kind of mojo that’s a might more dirty, if you catch my meaning. And I know just the skirt to do the deed.
Way I see it, I have three days to get this done. Three days. That’s not much, but God’s own Son pulled off that trick, so I imagine Connors can too. They sort of operate under the same set of rules.
I strike a waterproof match against my belt buckle and put fire to a twisted cigarillo I traded a witch doctor for down in New Orleans a week back. It’s black smoke seeps into my lungs and makes the world melt away a little bit.
“Don’t worry, Hoss,” I say as they lower the coffin into the ground. “I’ve got your back.”
Walking away from the service, Nightstalkers’ tears masked by the pouring god damn rain, there is but one blasted name on my mind and it’s gnawing away like a dog with a bone — Autumn Sevier.
Word is she’s back in the area, sniffing around the ruins of Cairnwood Manor. Well, I’ve a mind to do some sniffing of my own. The bitch owes me, but she’s owes Connors even more. She’s got the juice. Now I’ve just got to fire her up, turn her on, and get that old black magick flowing.