Steady As She Goes:

A Necromancy Ritual Gone Wrong

Preparing the Ritual

Bartholomew wiped his brow as he looked at his dead wife lying in their bed. He couldn’t bear her lying in the ground. Not alone. They were supposed to live happily ever after. He folded her arms across her body. He didn’t know what to do. This was his first time.

He looked at the book once more, studying the picture on the opposite side of the ritual. It was a picture of a maiden laying down the same way, same position. He didn’t know if it would matter, but he didn’t want to mess this up.

Perhaps it would have been better to practice on some butchered animals first. But the longer she stayed in the grave the more she would deteriorate. No. He had to do it quickly, but also accurately.

He reread the ritual. A lot of blood was needed. His blood. Necromancy demanded sacrifice—as all magic did—and in this case, as the one who cared for her the most (the book was explicit about this), he needed to measure out 1.25 liters of blood. He had the measuring vials; he had the tourniquet and needle.

Let’s get this rolling

He applied the tourniquet and found a vein, sticking the needle as best he could… It was very difficult; he was sure he missed… or maybe he just wasn’t doing it right, but still, the blood poured out and he exhausted his body into several vials measuring 1.25 liters.

Shit!

He stumbled around the bed as he bandaged his arm. He was going to need a doctor to make sure he wasn’t infected. He did his best to sterilize everything, but he wasn’t confident in his ability. Nor was he confident in raising the dead.

She looked so peaceful, lying there. Asleep. Dreaming. What about? He wondered. He shook his head. No time for sentiment.

I must do it now.

The vials were to be drained into her mouth. She was to “taste life and live again” as the book described, all while he chanted a sacred script…

Oh shit! The Chrysanthemums!

He nearly toppled over. The blood loss was getting to him. His head pounding. He had left the bag by the bedroom door. He crawled to it and dragged it towards the bed and gradually pushed himself back to his feet.

Steady as she goes.

A Moonlit Resurrection

He teetered momentarily, till he regained his focus upon her face. He smiled and pulled out the chrysanthemums, laying the blooms around her body, etching her silhouette onto the bedspread. A princess in the moonlight…

He glanced at the window. The moon was full; one of the main reasons it had to be tonight.

No mistakes. All perfect. Steady yourself, old chap.

He pulled the curtains wide and tied them away to let the fresh moonlight in. He opened the window and let in the cool fall air.

Autumn was her favorite. She loved the crisp chill and bundling up in her sweater and mittens. He smiled at the thought and stared longingly at his beautiful bride.

Picturesque, she was, lying amongst the flowers. Pale as the incoming light, but he imagined her rosy cheeks as he kissed them. Her sparkling eyes as she playfully pushed him away. He set to work.

He pulled the bed closer to the window. It would work better closer to the light.

Oh! Of course!

He forgot the power circle. He measured out the best position in front of the window and drew the circle with red chalk, a pentagram in the center with sigils in and around the points. He checked his work and moved the bed on top of the circle, her face aglow from the moon.

He sighed. The candles!

The candles had to be just right. He followed the picture and lit them, one by one, muttering the prayer that went with each one around the circle—five in all.

Belinda Returns

Bartholomew was exhausted and he was having a hard time standing. It was worth it. He poured the vials down her throat and read the sacred rites. He could feel it. There was something in the air. Igniting. Sparks prickling his skin, like a million pin pricks tapping him.

It was quiet and then a howling gust of wind blew into the room pushing him up against the opposite wall, forcing his eyes shut. The candles blew out, and the wind stopped.

“Bart?” came a voice near the window. “Where are you, Bart?”

“Belinda!” He opened his eyes to see her standing in the moonlight, wiping a bit of blood off her lips.

“What? What is the meaning of this?” she stared at him, a princess in the moonlight.

He approached her. “I brought you back. Darling, I couldn’t bear your death. I was mad with grief, Belinda.”

He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight, kissing her forehead and cheeks, waiting for her inevitable scarlet to cross her face. But it didn’t. Her stomach growled, a deep and hollow sound, and her eyes looked at him with a hunger and lust he had never seen before.

Her mouth agape. Darkness inside. Her jaw unhinged with a snap, and she buried her teeth into his shoulder, ripping his shirt off.

Bartholomew screamed. Belinda silenced it with her elongated, clawlike fingers, wrapping them around his throat until all that was heard was a gurgling sputter.

 

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