The Black Dog of Hellish Mean. By Paul Emerson Leicht (10.21.06) It watches her and smiles. Confident it will remain unnoticed; it observes the female biped incautiously. She fetches a cardkey from her coat pocket, and unlocks the door. It notes her large nose with pleasure. At one time, it too was corporeal and bipedal. It was a he then, living in the banal world above the Pale. That was before the day of the Grim. Nothing is easy to remember from before that time, now. Nevertheless, it remembers it liked females with large noses. It is so fascinated by watching her; it almost forgets to bound in behind her before she enters the room. If she enters the room and makes it her home before the grim shade enters it will be barred. If she were to invite it in, that would be different. This is the rule. Moreover, this rule is as immutable to its kind as the laws of physics are to mundanes. In addition, just as harsh in punishment for violations of it. There are other rules, but it fails to remember them now; its attention is captivated entirely by the female it is stalking. She is not beautiful by mundane standards, but her aura is a beacon it can hardly resist. It has been lucky in finding her. It was almost unable to complete its mission but she appeared and now it is anticipating freedom from geas and perhaps elevation in station and rank. And it is hungry. If it fails, of course, there will be indescribable suffering visited upon it. Perhaps it will be annihilated. However, success will mean satisfaction, praise, and reward. That is all the motivation it needs. It moves around in the room knowing she will sense nothing of it, until the time to strike arrives. It is incorporeal. Currently it is below the Pale. A place most psychics avoid unless urgent need arises. It is a place or plane of existence rather, where shadows rule. Light and darkness are subservient to will. It is a dangerous place to be for any of the Talent. A plane connects to the mundane world through the dreams and hopes of the dreamers and hopers. Though it has no physical body, in its own plane of existence its thought- body is that of a large midnight-black mastiff. With coal red eyes and razors for teeth, it has two inky tentacles reaching forward from its shoulders looming overhead, as if to grab anyone foolish enough to get near it. She does not sense it. She disrobes and showers leisurely, pulling spare clothing from her yet unpacked bags. Her name is Mirabelle, “Mira” to her friends. She is ‘Miss Mills’ to those whom she is less acquainted with or whom she distrusts. She is here in this out-of-the-way motel, preparing to do her job. The inimitable Mr. Johnathan Theodorus Weathers, a well-known philanthropist, summoned her here. She does not know yet what the details of the job are. She only knows one does not refuse the request of someone so powerful that her own mentor bows to him in public. Mr. Weathers has asked her via an agent to meet with him tonight. Her reputation as a psychic clairvoyant has proceeded her, she supposes. Which is amusing to her, as her fame is partially undeserved. She is a clairvoyant, but her “gift” is rather unpredictable at times and requires much preparation to channel the proper energy. She has relied in the past heavily on the assistance of her mentor, but he is missing. She has not heard from him in weeks and has no idea of where/how to contact him when he disappears. She has yet to successfully link to him psychically. She has not learned enough to be able to trace people who are Talented themselves who do not wish to be found. Mira is finally ready to begin her preparations for tonight. She pulls out her thaumaturgical gear and settles into the routine of setting up her meditation circle. She will need to connect to the ethereal planes to channel enough mana for whatever Mr. Weathers needs. Mira is not entirely sure how the process works. She is impeccably trained, however, and rarely fails to achieve the proper mental state for spiritual work. The grim shade sits watching patiently. Much like a dog, it imagines a tongue lolling and panting. Fixated intently on the object of its desire, it feels things stir within it. Hunger and jealousy mingle with an emotion it has forgotten since its mortal days: Arousal. How this is possible, it does not understand. It has no body but the tension it feels is almost tangible. It will not fail. Mira begins her ritual of warding by drawing the circles of arcane symbols with mixed colored sands. Each type of sand is from a different part of the earth, and she uses them sparingly, efficiently drawing each symbol. The outer most circle, which she draws first, is a combination of black and white powdered glass. Relaxing, she calls up on each ward as she faces the proper cardinal direction, starting with north, and ending by facing north once again. This activity is calming to her, and her mind goes blank with concentration. All worldly thoughts fleeing like sand through her hands into the mysteries of the Craft. It is now that she senses the malevolence surrounding her. The assault follows viciously and swiftly tears through her half lowered shields like cannon through cavalry. The tentacles quickly envelop her as she finally gets a glimpse of her attacker. She responds physically on a subconscious level, drawing her mystical dagger as her will engages that of the invader. Ben Tom hears the sound of breaking glass, looks up startled from his tv- dinner and curses under his breath. He gulps the food in his mouth down with a swig of Pabst, and grabs at his Louisville Slugger from under the counter. Getting up, he approaches the front window cautiously. He peers out and sees no activity. The moonlight shows an empty parking lot except for one car and no one he can see is outside. No further sounds out of the ordinary emerge from the night. He is almost tempted to go back to his dinner and forget about it. Nevertheless, he knows this “charity” job could be his last for a while if he is fired. Vandalism is a minor nuisance in a small town like this but the motel owner would not appreciate him doing nothing. “Hmmph” he thinks. “Best go investigate. Prolly just some kids practicing for ‘Hell Night’.” He shrugs on his overcoat and with bat in hand heads out into the brisk autumn night. A dog howls somewhere, and he nervously tights his grip. Nothing seems out of the ordinary and he is about to turn around and go back inside when he sees the lights. The lights seem to be coming from down, near number thirty-five. Somewhat like what happens when a television is on very bright while in a dark room. Only brighter, and the lights are reddish in hue. Number thirty-five is the room he let to the sole renter he has had this week. Miss Mills, he remembers. She made a point of correcting him when he tried to address her by her first name. “Prissy bitch, I guess,” he thought at the time. Now he is wondering what in God’s name is going on down there. “I oughta call the Sheriff.” He thinks.”But what if it is just a party. I don’t want the motel to get a ticket for noise violations. Ill just go check to make sure that’s all it is.” It should be noted that Ben Tom is not a brave man. He washed out of boot camp in the Army because he couldn’t bring himself to fire a rifle at targets that looked like people. He has never failed to run from a fight and was picked on mercilessly as a kid, often because of that. On the other hand, he has learned to defend himself from criminals by pretending to be tough and putting up a brave front. He knows most of them are, like him, afraid of fighting and would rather just pick on someone easier than risk being beaten or jailed. This explains the bat. Normally it is all the deterrent he needs for most of the town punks. They might know Ben Tom is a coward but they don’t know he won’t hit them accidently with that monstrously hard piece of wood. No one has called him on his bluff since he started working at the motel. The job is courtesy of a cousin-in-law who felt sorry for him after he failed out of the army. Now he is in his late 40’s paunchy and has no ambitions other than the usual day-to-day things everyone does. Sure, he dreams of winning the lottery but usually he doesn’t bother buying tickets, knowing his odds are slim to none. The dream suffices for him. Ben Tom, the cowardly caretaker of this motel inches forward towards the lights pulling together the shreds of his courage and hoping to God its just a party. As he gets closer, he notices the glass of the front window is blasted outward across the walkway. Within, lights and shadows make things hard to discern. After knocking once, he gingerly takes out his master cardkey and opens the door. The red light turns green and he enters with the bat held out in front of him. What he sees stops him in his tracks. A woman, obviously Miss Mills, is struggling with something shadowy inside a circle made of sand depicting weird designs. Ben Tom does not understand what is going on but he knows something bad is happening. His first inclination is to run out and get his cellphone. Calling the Sheriff is what he knows should happen next. However, he gets a rare urge to do something immediately. He does not think this urge through but rushes forward breaking the circle in the process. He loses control of his body as he trips on unseen implements laid out before Miss Mills. He crashes into her and topples her over. Blood flows from various wounds on her, he can see now. She is barely conscious. He also sees now what was attacking her. Sadly, for him, it is the last thing he sees, before the tentacles enter his body and extract his feeble defenseless soul. He lets out a last scream of anguish and collapses dead. The grim shade howls too. It was hungry and it responded instinctively to the interloper by lashing out. Ben Tom managed in death what he could never seem to get right in life. He died a hero, saving someone else. Tragically, no one who knew him will ever know this. Even Mira will only know that he saved her, not knowing how unlike him this act of courage was. Mira, no longer bound by the attacking wraith, awakens enough to respond to the sudden cessation of violence by slamming her shields firmly shut and then moving out of the circle. Blood is everywhere. It is her blood, shed from self-inflicted wounds in order to keep her will to fight strong. She starts an incantation of Banishment, trembling and holding her mystic knife in front of her. The beast does not seem to notice her as it feeds on the remains of Ben Tom’s soul. The words of power begin to bind it and it notices finally. It struggles attempting to reach the chanter. Its tentacles grow longer than should be possible if it was a mundane beast. However, it is not, it is a thing of nightmares and shadow. Mira utters the last word with conviction as the tentacles reach her. They glow a light blue hue and then like the rest of the grim shade disappear in a flash of brilliant light. Ben Tom’s corpse is ghastly in the semi dark that remains. Mira is fatigued past exhaustion and stumbles to the bed, lying there until her mind finally recovers enough to start manufacturing worries. She gets up and runs to the bathroom. A shower later, she is able to think things through rationally. The police will investigate the death of the motel Caretaker. Mira used cash, but she also used her real name. That is in the guestbook. If she is quick, she can steal that page but there is the blood. Some it is in the carpet. She cannot remember a cantrip to help with that right. If only her mentor were here. But he is not. She is worried about that too. There is also the "why" of what happened here. Nothing has ever attacked her across the pale before. She didn’t know it was even possible. How did it know who she was? How did it get inside her circle? Many questions start popping into her frazzled brain. One thing becomes clear. One person knew where she was. Mr. Weathers. He or his agent is aware she is here. She gets out her cellphone and considers calling the Weathers household but then paranoia sets in and she puts it away. She pulls it out again and shuts it off. She read somewhere recently companies can track their cellphone users via a GPS hidden in the device. She will leave it here along with her shredded credit cards. It is time for her to become someone else. She is not certain how this will work but she knows she is better off a fugitive than inside a jail cell, arrested for a death she did not cause. Not to mention that such a place would make it easier for whoever is out to get her to reach her. She packs her things. Staring at poor Ben Tom, she says a quick prayer to the ether that he is ok in the hereafter. Then she remembers the nature of that thing that was trying to devour her soul. Clearly, he will not be in the hereafter. His soul is forever gone. Saddened she turns and leaves, turning out the lights and closing the door. She locks it with her cardkey and tosses it through the broken window. Ignoring her car, she keeps walking.