The Locket

By J.L. Hohler III

Claire found the locket by chance, was fascinated by it.  A medieval, unknowable piece, she learned late the locket was a portal to another dimension, where demons torment and defile her, and make her ready for things worse than she could have ever imagined.

But Claire will not allow the condemnation of her soul without a fight, and determines to make her escape in any way she can.

The Locket – The newest novella by J.L. Hohler III – A story of demons, despair, and extreme body horror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blind Monkey Times
• Release date: Feb 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524278403

J.L. Hohler III

Mr. Hohler is a writer, living in Michigan with his wife and two children. A devoted soccer fan, Mr. Hohler's favorite clubs are the Manchester United and L.A. Galaxy, though he'll watch just about any game he can. In his spare time, he practices family law. You can read his blog at www.TheLastBlogNameOnEarth.com.

Book preview

Chapters

i.

ii.

iii.

iv.

v.

vi.

vii.

viii.

ix.

After.

Also By.

I.

Long Past

Gofannon leaned close over the bench.  The bench a great, wide, oak slab, hewn from a tree felled by his father’s father, worked mirror-smooth by use in the decades since.  Passing elder to younger, then to younger again.  The original linseed oil finish a distant memory, the wood preserved now by the copious sweat of the men who worked over it, the hardened patina of age.

But sweat – most of all, sweat.

And sweat came.  The smelting furnace filled the workshop with heat – sweltering heat.  Like the distant jungles the explorers spoke of – seen by few, talked over by many.  A sweaty, wet heat.  And—

And the workshop needed heat – silver would not extract itself.  The heat—

Fine silver.  Finest in the realm – finer even than the crown on royal heads.  Finer than—

Gofannon leaned so close his beard, singed to stubble from years working the forge and the heat, touched at the wood benchtop.  Touched at the wax model he worked, bristled across it, carrying off shavings, delicately carved by his own hands, the only one of its kind, never to be duplicated.

Once carved, the wax set in a box, sand collected in about it.  The finest grain sand there was, come at a dear cost.  Fine enough to carry over even the minutest detail.  Piled in and wetted and pounded stout with a mallet.  Until there was no room between the grains to hide even the smallest pocket of air.  Pounded ‘til the sand turned monolithic, nearly melded together by force and intention.  No longer a billion little things, now it was one.

Then the furnace, stoked with coal and peat, burned bright.  Burned the impurities from the silver, left only that one, perfect ingredient.  That—

In the mold, the molten silver lit fire to the wax.  Burned it away and replaced it, taking the form of the cavity left behind.  Happened in a rush of steam and smoke, the wet in the sand sizzling, the smoke of the scorched wax acrid in the air.

After a time, the sand and wooden box dropped and broke apart, spitting out the rough pieces of metal within.  Dulled and without the luster they’d acquire upon filing and polishing.  Hours and hours of it, working the pieces to a mirror finish – mirrored as the benchtop.  Filing and polishing and fitting the pieces.  Laborious care in joining them.  Hours and hours of work, bit by bit, the pieces lubricated by sweat, until finally it—

Then came the scrollwork.  The chisel as perfect and delicate as the piece it created.  Working around and around the faces and edges, gentle taps of the mallet urging it along, raising vines and leaves and thorns and—

The engraving, when brought to a polished finish, swirled.  Around and over itself, mesmerizing in the way it led the eye.  Gave the effect of spinning – a kaleidoscope of movement.  Even as it stood still, the—

Then came the chain, silver poured and pounded and stretched thin.  Rolled.  Delicate work fit for—

Gofannon had not seen the work of the royal smiths – he’d never been granted an audience with either the royals nor their laborers.  Still, he was certain if his skills were held to theirs, he’d be a worthy rival, if not their better.

Alchemy.

*****

Keilyn came round to fetch the piece.

Keilyn—

A grotesque man.  Face and body a horror show of an oddity—

Eyes akilter, one higher in the skull than the other and protruding, almost as if a man stood behind him, pressing through his skull with small stick, intent on popping the eye free from the inside.  His brow heavy, jagged, and his ears—

It was near impossible to tell where the boils from the front of his head ended and those on the back begun.  Only the ear offered a dividing line between the two, but even that was not a certain line.  Instead, great pustules dotted his skin.  Puffed and ready to burst at any moment and—

Bent and hunched in his back.  Each step a labor, and—

Called himself a conjurer, subscribed to some sort of witchcraft, as if such things could be a calling.  A profession.

The idiocy of the propertied, Gofannon mused, to himself.  Only they could—

And yet, the man was propertied – propertied and stood to gain peerage upon the death of a father.  One day the grotesque little curiosity would be Lord Something-Or-Other.  So—

So Gofannon was passive when he faced the man – he might not be Lord Something-or-Other yet, but he surely would be and there was no need to cross him.  Only stood and waited as the price was paid.  The coins carried about Keilyn’s neck and down his blouse in a small, leather pouch.  Jangling with every bounce of the bag against his chest – a wide, crooked chest – as Keilyn dragged himself about.

Well? Gofannon pressed, when Keilyn set to inspecting the piece.  What say you?

Keilyn turned the polished magnifier to the work, peering with his protruding eye.  Studying every turn of the tools, chasing after any flaw, determined to reject it for even the slightest imperfection for reasons both personal and necessary.  Compared it to the plans he’d provided upon making the commission, the sketches on the vellum, assessing it all.  Let no detail escape his gaze.

I challenge you to besmirch it, Gofannon said, voice full of the boasting that would one day lead to his death, when Keilyn went on studying longer than Gofannon thought right.  "I defy—"

I accept your challenge, Keilyn croaked

That item is perfect, Gofannon said.  Perfect as any on earth or heaven!

Keilyn scoffed.

Earth! he spat and set to even more intense consideration.  "Heaven!"

He chuffed and studied the front and the back and the insides and the out and every link on the chain of the piece with renewed enthusiasm.  Grunting and wheezing and determined Gofannon should feast upon his words.  Only—

It is indeed perfect, Keilyn finally admitted, with some reluctance, when he could find nothing to object to.  Tis the best I’ve seen.

Gofannon grinned, proud.  Gladly took the coins Keilyn offered in payment, a pleasant clink as each landed in his meaty, outstretched palm.

You have done yourself proud, Keilyn said, when the leather pouch and his gold was returned to its place.  You have achieved a wonder.

Thereafter, he spirited away the piece into some deep recess upon his person, where it could not tempt a passing thief.

You shall be remembered for this, he said and turned his grin to a smile – a haunting smile.  The smile of the wolf over its prey, standing ready to make the kill but holding off for but a moment to enjoy the anticipation of the blood – the thrill of the kill more important than the kill.  You shall be eternal!

The words sent a shiver of fear up Gofannon’s spine, the compliment coming more as a threat than anything else, and he expected attack.  Instead, Keilyn merely hefted his britches higher upon his waist and hips, turned with some difficultly on his misshapen feet, and took his leave.

*****

Keilyn performed the ceremony in the shed beyond the garden.  The warped, leaning structure smelled of earth, leaves and rat droppings.  A myriad of other, pungent smells.  Went out at half-past eleven and cleared the floor, as it was written, and formed the pentagram upon it, down in the dirt, also as it was written.  Consulted the scrolls to be certain, then—

Then he fetched the goat.

He expected the animal to fight the knife.  Expected it to buck and protest its death – all creatures would fight their own demise, no matter the importance its death played.  It was in the blood, even in one dense as a goat.  Even facing a blade honed for hours, worked so fine it need only be waved at the animal to strike it dead.  But the animal kept passive at the cut.  Felt but a tickle about its neck, hardly enough to twitch at, and by the time the goat caught the metallic aroma of its own blood on the air, wafting up from where it pooled in the gourd set between its feet, and realized some danger, it’s fate was irrevocably sealed.  Even should it desire to fight, it had not even the force of will for it.  Nor an idea how to stop it.

Dead, Keilyn laid the carcass upon the foot of the altar, as the old text said.

The blood—

Some part he quaffed, as it was written.  Drank and spoke the words and drank again – his lips stained with the color.

Some other part of it painted symbols upon his body.  Slipped from his blouse and formed them on his bare face, hands and belly.  The blood warm and sticky on his fingers, dipped in as brushes, then sticky on his skin.

Some part of the rest marked the locket itself, dabbed on with a brush, fine and delicate, made of the soft hair of wild puma, as it was meant to be.  Careful in adorning it.  Precise.

Then,