Crowley's Window

By Gord Rollo

Abby Hawkins was never normal. Born with a birth cowl — a rare birth defect thought to predict psychic abilities — she is haunted by horrible visions. Shortly after her 13th birthday, Abby’s parents call in the mysterious Crowley to help their daughter. His interventions rid her of the visions… and her eyes.

Now a beautiful young lady, Abby Hawkins works as a blind fortune teller in a traveling Carnival. When she receives another powerful vision — one depicting the abduction of a little girl — she becomes the sole witness to the crime. Only a young police officer believes her bizarre story, and with his help she embarks upon an investigation that will ultimately reunite her with the madman from her past and bring her to the hellish threshold of Crowley’s Window.

Special Bonus Content: The short story Memories of a Haunted Man by Gord Rollo and Everette Bell

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashbury Creek Media
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540140296

Gord Rollo

Gord Rollo was born in St. Andrews, Scotland, but now lives in Ontario, Canada. His short stories and novella-length work have appeared in many professional publications throughout the genre and his novels include: The Jigsaw Man, Crimson, Strange Magic, Valley Of The Scarecrow, The Translators, Only The Thunder Knows, and The Crucifixion Experiments.. His work has been translated into several languages and his titles are currently being adapted for audiobooks. Besides novels, Gord edited the acclaimed evolutionary horror anthology, Unnatural Selection: A Collection of Darwinian Nightmares. He also co-edited Dreaming of Angels, a horror/fantasy anthology created to increase awareness of Down’s syndrome and raise money for research.

Book preview

Crowley's Window

Gord Rollo

Published by Ashbury Creek Media, 2016.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Quote

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Memories of a Haunted Man

Also by Gord Rollo

The Jigsaw Man

Strange Magic

Valley of the Scarecrow

The Translators

Crowley’s Window

The Dark Side of Heaven

Peeler

Gods & Monsters Vol. 1

Time & Space Vol. 2

Flesh & Blood Vol. 3

Copyright © 2016 by Gord Rollo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

Published by Ashbury Creek Media

Ontario, Canada

Book Design by Adam Geen

www.adamgeen.com

Cover Image (Eye) by Kati

www.silaynnestock.deviantart.com

There was something awesome in the thought of the solitary mortal standing by the open window and summoning in from the gloom outside the spirits of the nether world.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

British Mystery Author and Physician (1859-1930)

PART ONE

Hawkins House

Millbridge, New York

May 5th, 2004

The only light in the room came from five tall black candles burning at the outer points of the crudely drawn pentagram in the center of the living room hardwood floor. An older couple sat cross-legged on the ground, nervously facing one another inside the sacrilegious symbol. For a stretch of ten full seconds the farmhouse fell blissfully silent, an admittedly brief yet somehow everlasting moment in time that had both Jarrett and Ingrid Hawkins holding their collective breath, clutching at each other’s cold clammy hands, and praying to whatever gods might be listening that the nightmare was over.

But then their daughter began to scream again.

And again.

Her mother shrieked too, unable to contain her emotions any longer—a high-pitched wail of despair and fear—and released her claw-like hold on her husband to ball her fists over her ears, futilely attempting to drown out the child’s agonizing cries. She’s only a little girl! Ingrid thought, her tear-filled eyes desperately searching her husband’s for any sign of hope.

Jarrett had none to give her. Tall and lean, his circular eyeglasses precariously close to falling from his thin, crooked nose, he sat stone-faced and motionless, emotionally drained and silently accepting that he could do nothing to help either of the people he loved most in this world. His wife was tough, though. A small fiery redheaded farmwoman that was as hard and wiry as he was. Jarrett knew she would survive this night, would soldier on regardless of what happened. But Abigail? Jarrett had no idea what would happen to their sweet little Abby.

It was still too early to tell.

Abigail Hawkins was thirteen years old now, her birthday just last week, and she was Jarrett and Ingrid’s only child. They’d waited until late in life to start a family; waited too long perhaps, with Jarrett being forty-five years old and Ingrid a few days shy of forty-three when Abby had been born. In their mid to late fifties now, both could still vividly remember that day and how everyone present had known the child was different right from the minute she’d slid from her mother’s womb.

At first, Jarrett had thought she’d been born without a face, but before panic could set in and thankfully before Ingrid got a look at her, the woman doctor who’d delivered the baby gasped and made the sign of the cross over her ample bosom. Thinking quickly, she’d grabbed a nearby scalpel and cut a small slit in the blank space where the child’s mouth should have been. There was a great intake of air and their tiny daughter was finally able to breathe on her own.

The doctor explained that Abby had been born with what was called a birth cowl; a thin membrane of skin completely covering her face. It was extremely rare and if they believed in such things, traditionally a mystical sign that the child would grow up to possess extraordinary psychic powers. A further surgery had been required to remove the extra layer of skin but beneath the mysterious cowl was a beautiful, perfectly healthy baby girl. The Hawkins had brought home their little girl and had done their best to deflect and dismiss the attention some members of their small community had wanted to heap upon the strange circumstances of her birth and soon they were just a regular family again, forgotten by the masses just the way they preferred.

There must be something we can do? Ingrid asked, another squeal of pure madness coming from Abigail in her room down the hall.

Quiet, woman, her husband said. You know this is out of our hands now. We have to wait for Crowley.

But what if she’s hurt herself again? Or worse? Go check on her.

Worse? Jarrett thought. What could be worse? We can’t break the pentagram. We have to do what Crowley says.

But he’s not here yet. Surely you can just take a quick look? Please Jarrett…we can’t just let her suffer like this!

Sweat was pouring down Jarrett’s face and despite his stoic posture, inside this night of transformation was killing him too, maybe even more so than it was his wife. He was terrified of disobeying Crowley, but it was driving him mad sitting here doing nothing while his only child suffered alone in the next room. Another lingering scream from Abby’s room convinced him.

Okay…okay. I’ll have a quick look. You stay here though.

Jarrett stood to his feet, knees popping from sitting cross-legged for so long, and carefully stepped out of the star without allowing his bare feet to touch any part of the occult drawing. Clear of the pentagram he headed directly for Abby’s bedroom, opening her door as silently and gently as he could, hoping not to disturb her. His stealth was unnecessary; the young girl on the single bed was totally absorbed in her nightmare visions, oblivious to her immediate surroundings.

Abby was a small girl with long dark hair like her father’s. Usually a fit and healthy girl but tonight she was pale and fragile looking, her skin slightly jaundiced and sweating profusely. Her eyes, normally a beautiful shade of jade, were bloodshot red and bulging out of their sockets. Twin lines of syrupy blood openly leaked down her cheeks; crimson tears that stained her bleached white pillowcase on both sides of her face. Abby’s arms were pulled in opposite directions, strapped tightly to her headboard and her feet were still bound together at the baseboard, just the way Jarrett had last left her.

Good, he thought. She’s doing okay.

Jarrett backed away from the door and returned to Ingrid. Seated back on the floor within the boundary of the candles again, he tried his best to reassure his wife. She’s fine. I mean…not fine, but she’s okay. She’s still tied up and can’t hurt herself anymore.

Earlier this evening, when the change had began, Abby had started thrashing uncontrollably and wailing inconsolably on the bed like someone was electrocuting her. She’d began screaming in obvious agony and once the visions had taken over and flooded her mind, she’d tried to claw her own eyes out of her head rather than be forced to see the things she was being shown. Jarrett and Ingrid had been forced to bind her to the bed for her own protection. At least the straps were holding.

Abby began to scream again.

Damn it, Ingrid said, Where is Crowley? He promised he’d hurry.

He’ll come. No worry about that. He’s been waiting for this night since the day she was born.

Maybe you should call… Ingrid started, but they both heard the front door open and then slam shut again. Fear bit off the rest of her sentence and all she could do was stare into her husband’s haunted eyes.

It’s him, Jarrett whispered, reassuring himself more than his wife. Things will be okay now. Shouting to the new arrival, he said, We’re in here, Reverend.

The telltale scent of Lavender and honey permeated the house, strong and sickly sweet. And beneath that naturally pleasing aroma, barely masked, was an odor of decay and rot as well, of rancid meat left to spoil in the sun. Marcus Crowley stood beside them before Jarrett and Ingrid had time to realize they were no longer alone, entering the living room like a wraith, silent and deadly in his black overcoat and matching fedora hat. His clothes may have been dark, but his skin and hair were as white as snow. People would often notice his red-tinged eyes and think he was an albino, but they were wrong. Others might laugh (though they’d never dare do it to his face) and think surely he’d seen a ghost and that’s what had shocked his hair white. They’d never know how close to the truth they’d come.

Crowley was tall and rake thin, but regardless of his slim stature, seemed to fill the room with his presence. He’d possessed the same overbearing personality and powerful aura years ago, back when he’d been an actual preacher in the Pentecostal Church, and even now, decades later his followers still called him Reverend out of respect and fear. Not that he had many followers left, mind you; which was fine by him. He only needed a devoted handful for what was to come. A few obedient people…and of course, the girl.

Is she bleeding? Crowley asked.

Yes, Reverend, Jarrett started to reply. "Sorry but we couldn’t get her tied down fast enough and she scratched her face pretty badly