MalnzznlaM

by MarQuese Liddle

My tired eyes squinted through the fog on the glass separating me from the library’s special exhibit. I hated every second, yet I refused to let my professor’s superstitions keep me from my degree. So I held my breath, gathered the last scribbles intact in the Knotwick Brothers’ journal, half-laughing as I transcribed its fantastical contents. I’d never seen something quite like it, not in Slaneswood, WV. No one had since the Knotwick trial—the first and last case of the occult our town had ever heard.

While the journal itself contained a plethora of preliminary facts, it lacked a record of what actually occurred. A thin scratchy hand, that of the younger brother, details rituals, incantations, and the intentions of their spell. It was a conjuration by his account; however, the deep, heavy letters of Elder Knotwick suggested something more akin to an alchemist’s grocery list. Strangely, it was this section which drew me in. There were columns of materials and expenses. There was the expected, of course: chalk and candles, sticks of incense imported from the east, a jar of eyes preserved in formaldehyde, and coarsely ground bones both human and animal. Then there was the one odd object which seemed to me to not belong.

It was a box, perhaps something of a chest, smuggled into the country a century ago from some oriental jungle then transported across inhospitable terrain, over dust bowls and mountains, to this quaint little town hidden in the hills of what was known then as western Virginia. By Elder Knotwick’s accounts, the chest itself cost more than all their other components combined, and the transportation fees exceed that by several times over.

Those were all the relevant details present in the pages on display, so to get the rest, I had to consult with secondary sources. Fortunately, the college’s senior professor of theology—the man who had arranged the exhibit in the first place—was on hand to fill in the gaps. I must confess, however, I felt quite uncomfortable approaching him with this subject. I’d already borne disdain for the man for requiring students to take part in this farce, but abuse of station aside, he was also the pastor at the small, Lutheran church my family had attended since my youth. Nevertheless, there was no more reliable source of information. He’d leave no details undisclosed. So I asked him.

He started with that mysterious object, the chest. It had apparently been a vital tool, a crucial vessel to complete the summoning. According to rumors, a sacrifice was to be made and stowed away inside the box to act as a puppet for demonic possession. But that was all hearsay. The only record corroborating the claims was a name scrawled hastily toward the end of the Knotwick brothers’ journal entries. “MalnzznlaM.” Some stories supposed it to be part of an incantation while others said it was the demon’s name. Whatever the truth, had it not been mentioned with such incredible frequency, the professor said he’d have discounted them outright. He was glad he hadn’t, for a decade of pursuing the unfounded claims had eventually led to a most profound discovery—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Assuming the common elements of the rumors to be true, and I’m not by any stretch convinced they are, the brothers’ conjuration attempt had failed. Despite their diligence and hefty collection of medieval alchemical texts, neither of the Knotwicks had calculated the necessity of a living human sacrifice. These modern legends also suggest that the potential waste of years and savings had sent the older brother into a fit of rage, that he’d turned on young Knotwick and killed him right there in their house in the middle of town. It’s said the screams were so loud the whole neighborhood could hear.

Much of the rest comes in snippets from court documents. The house was raided. Young Knotwick’s corpse was discovered torn to pieces and stuffed inside the chest. The older brother, found alive, was likewise covered in strange lacerations and had crammed himself into the corner of the room. He couldn’t even speak, the record reported, just whimper in horror at what he had done.

He was hanged shortly after, and the chest taken by a detachment of twelve men far out of town to be buried. They’d been too superstitious to risk destroying it for fear of what might be unleashed.

Not a man returned from that journey—not until recently, the professor had informed me. He’d sent a graduate-excavation team to explore a promising lead. It took several weeks, but at last they found the chest beneath a thin blanket of soil. The chest, but nothing else. Given the depth at which the artifact rested, it seemed the detachment never did bury it, so the team went ahead to search for remains. They uncovered nothing—not a single bone or preserved bit of clothes, even post the expansion of their perimeter. They could not believe it, at least until they opened the chest.

Inside were the skeletons of thirteen men—the twelve sent to dispose of the thing, and the original victim. I was skeptical, and it must have shown on my face, because the professor’s expression turned adamant. He said he’d seen them himself, that I’d see as well once the second half of the exhibit was revealed. Tomorrow. In the evening.

His words left me feeling uneasy—the whole scene, really. A pastor so enthusiastic to bring in a journal written by heretics and the remnants of the madmen’s ritual. It just didn’t make sense. I had to ask him, “Doesn’t it feel odd for you to do an exhibit like this—given your position, that is?”

The professor gazed long upon the glass pane lain over top of the journal, tapping the surface, almost stroking it. Then, slowly, he turned his head, his eyes lingering on the pages as he answered, “Position? My son, if there is but one revelation you must come to understand, it is that we are and forever shall be in kinship with the devil.”