Johan Von Apotheker is the villain in Enter Infernum. He is an evil sorcerer in service to Lucifer. Apotheker gets another chance to serve Hell. He returns to earth, with a new scheme. Here’s his story.
A knock at the door disturbs Bridget Calley’s soap. Annoyed, she answered the door in a huff, “What!”
A man stood at her door carrying a large suitcase. “Another salesman,” thought the irritated housewife. “What ya selling, Mac?,” said Bridget.
The man smiled, “Magic.”
Bridget focused on the man. His face was scarred by fire. One eye occluded. The salesman was well dressed, red tweed suit, black shirt with crimson bow tie. Black oxford shoes. A gray fedora sat atop his head. The smile masked the menace radiating off the stranger.
“Excuse me?,” said Bridget.
“Let me introduce myself. I’m Johan Von Apotheker, a licensed practitioner in the dark arts. I see the skepticism,” said the salesman. He retrieved a laminated card and handed it to the housewife.
The woman examined the card. It had a photograph of the salesman without the facial scars. His name and address listed. Certified Black Magic License bolded upon the top of the card. The license was signed by the Secretary of Hell, Lilith. “Novelty card,” thought Bridget.
“But it’s not a novelty card. I’m the real McCoy,” said Apotheker. “This,” the salesman materialized a paperback from thin air, “Is what you need.”
The woman exchanged the license for the paperback. Bridget frowned over the unimaginative title, “Black Magic for Fun and Profit.” The book cover was black with white lettering in Courier. The back of the book had a photo of the author, Lucifer. The head shot was in shadow. It looked like smoke outlined the man. “What is this? A horror novel?”
“No, my dear lady, it’s a do-it-yourself book.”
“Why would I need a book of spells?”
Apotheker smiled like a Cheshire cat, “Well, for starters, it would take care of your cheating husband, Fred Calley, Bridget.”
The stranger frightened Bridget. She stuttered, “How, how, how do you know our names?”
“The book, remember. I recommend the spell on page 120.”
Bridget turned to the page and read the spell’s synopsis. “Animation spell? What’s it for? How’d I use it?”
“You can turn a harmless toy into a killer. You control it. It only responds to your commands, or I should say your emotions.”
“How much for the book?”
“A quarter.”
Bridget reached into her frock and handed Apotheker a quarter.
“Can I use anything but a toy? We don’t have children.”
“Tisk, tisk, tisk. You don’t have children, but old Freddy does. You know the rumors about Mrs. Jones down the street, they’re true. And his secretary, Gladys Simmons. Well, isn’t little Jeremy the spitting image of Mr. Calley.”
Bridget’s face turned purple, her anger boiled. Fred always worked late at the office, spending his evenings working his secretary. And Alice Jones, always fixing something at her house, neglecting his own home.
Apotheker reached behind him and pulled out a two foot tall doll. The doll’s skin was a stark white. Eyes red. Lips and eye lids black. It had foot long, black hair. The doll dressed in a long black robe with a hood. An upside down cross hung on its chest.
“How much?”
“Five dollars.”
“I’ll be back.” Bridget went inside to retrieve the money. She handed the salesman the five dollar note.
“One last thing, you’ll need this.” Apotheker held a white index card with writing on it. Bridget asked, “What’s this?”
“The counterspell. As the doll responds solely to your emotions and it can get a tiny bit out of control. That’s why you need this.”
As Bridget reached for the card, Apotheker said, “Uh, uh, uh. Twenty dollars.”
The housewife was furious. “I’m not plunking down that kind of money for an index card.”
“Suit yourself. Just in case, here’s my business card. Call me if you have any issues with the merchandise.” Apotheker tipped his hat and left.
Bridget toted book and doll into the house. As she set the doll down, the phone rang. The housewife answered, “Calley residence.”
“Hey hon, I’m working late again tonight. Don’t wait up for me. We have an important contract that I need to formalize before tomorrow’s meeting. Luv ya.”
When the dial tone returned, so did Bridget’s anger. She opened the paperback to the animation spell. The ritual seemed straight forward. Draw a five pointed star on the floor and enclose it in a circle. Place the toy in the center of the circle. Paint an upside down cross on toy in the summoner’s blood. Place an item or article of clothing on the toy. Recite the following, “Lignum, lapis, ferrum carnem efficiunt. Furorem meum hauri. Rabiem meam devora. Imperata fac. Ultionem meam exsequere. Fac eos cruciari. Fac eos flere. Fac eos mori. Furore meo in aeternum alitus.”
The footnote at the bottom of the page translated the text. “Wood, stone, and iron make flesh. Inhale my fury. Consume my rage. Do my bidding. Inflict my vengeance. Make them suffer. Make them cry. Make them dead. Forever fueled in my fury.”
Bridget retrieved a piece of chalk from her sewing basket and drew the five pointed star on the living room’s wood floor. She drew a circle encompassing the star. Bridget placed the doll in the star’s center and went into the bedroom in search of an item of Fred’s. She draped her husband’s tie over the doll’s shoulders like a stole. With a safety pin, Bridget pricked her index finger and painted an upside down cross on the doll’s forehead. She recited the Latin spell.
The doll levitated inches from the floor. It’s head turned and smiled at the housewife. “Are you sure?,” it said.
“Am I sure, what?”
“Fred, dead,” replied the doll.
“Yes.”
It returned to the floor and said, “Very well. I need knives.”
The doll followed Bridget into the kitchen. It’s gait was stiff legged, more a march than a walk. The housewife pulled out a drawer, retrieved two steak knives and handed them to the doll.
“What do I call you?,” asked Bridget.
“Medea.”
“The witch?”
“One and the same,” responded the demon doll. “Do you want a trophy?”
“What?”
“Should I pluck Fred’s eye from his head? Sever a finger or two? Or maybe, you’d like his willy?, laughed the doll.
“Medea, I just want him dead.”
“Be gone tonight. You’ll need an alibi.”
“I’ll stay with mom. I do that sometimes when he’s gone.”
Bridget packed a small suitcase and left Medea to deal with her cheating husband Fred.
Fred entered his residence inebriated. Bourbon and booty. He snuck into the house and tiptoed to the bedroom, hoping the ball and chain was asleep. The bed was made. “Must be at mom’s,” he thought.
The pitter patter of feet alerted Fred that he was not alone. “Damn cat, Snowball,” he thought. A voice called out from the darkness, “Freddy, come out and play Freddy.” He did not recognize the woman’s voice.
He staggered into the dark house. The voice called again, “Over here Freddy.” The stranger’s call came from the living room. Exploring the darkness, Fred bump against one of the end tables. His hand searched the pitch for the lamp. Found, he twisted the knob of the lamp. The light chased away the darkness. A small figure stood close to his recliner. He ventured to his chair to see a two foot doll. It’s countenance, ghastly with chalk white skin and long black hair. Eyes fire red. The doll held steak knives in its tiny hands, cloaked in a black robe like some ninja warrior.
“What the fuck!,” said Fred.
“What the fuck, indeed, Freddy,” replied the doll.
“I’m drunk. That’s it. This is a dream,” murmured Fred.
The doll ran up to Fred and plunged a knife into his shin. “Is this a dream Freddy?,” demanded the devil doll. Fred screamed in pain, “Motherfucker.”
“I’m sure you did, Freddy,” replied the doll.
In anger, Fred punted the doll with his uninjured leg for the extra point. The doll hit the bookcase and fell to the floor. It righted itself in a downward dog move, struggling to stand straight.
“What are you?,” hollered Fred.
“I’m your comeuppance, you whore hound. The name is Medea. You should know the name of your executioner.”
The doll quick, stiff legged its walk back to Fred and planted a knife in the thigh of his good leg. With its knives, Medea climbed its way up the Fred mountain, stabbing thigh, stomach, and chest in its ascent.
Fred grabbed the doll at its waist, plucked it from his body and held it at arm’s length. The dolls kicked in his grasp. It swung its left arm, planning a steak knife in his forearm. The man dropped the doll, swearing, “Motherfucker.”
As he turned to run, the doll slashed at the tendon in Fred’s ankle, felling the giant. Medea stabbed him in the back, pounding the knives into the wounded man. Fred reached his arm around, grabbed the doll by its ankle and flung it across the room. With the aid of the couch, he propped himself up and hobbled out the living room.
He made it to the coat closet before the mad doll could fall on him. Fred held the door closed. Medea hammered its tiny fists on the door, screaming in frustration. “You can’t hide in there forever Fred.”
“Says who?”
The question was answered with the sounds of a chair scraping against the wooden floor of the dining room. The doorknob turned. Fred resisted the force at the door. The pull on the door was strong. He leaned back, teetering on his good leg. Without warning, the door was pulled off its hinges and hurled the door and Fred into the dining room. He turned over to see Medea still standing on the dining room chair by the closet.
The doll hopped off the chair and stiff legged its march towards Fred. He held his arms over his face to protect himself from the doll’s knife attack.
Medea swung the knives at Fred’s arms, again and again. Fred sat in pain when the devil doll plunged a knife into his testicles. The doll climbed onto his lap and flashed a knife across his neck. Blood gushed from the wound. He used his hands to squelch the blood. The doll answered by slashing at his hands. Fred fell to his side. Medea stabbed a steak knife deeper into his neck, sawing through skin and muscle. A geyser of blood spirted from Fred’s neck. His pallor paled as Fred bled out. His breathing stopped. His heart beat no longer. Fred, dead.
The doll pushed a chair to the front door. It hopped onto the chair, turned the door knob and pulled the door open. Medea marched into the night to finish its mission.
Bridget returned home at dawn. The door to her home was wide open. Blood trailed from the living room. Fred lay on top of the closet door in the dining room. Blood pooled around his body. Bridget held her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. She picked up the telephone in the living room and called the police.
She went into the kitchen in search of the cooking sherry. Bridget needed something to calm her nerves. She noticed papers on the top of the kitchen table. Picking them up, Bridget saw it was a life insurance policy. As she read the document, especially the beneficiary claim on the policy, police sirens startled her. “A dead husband and this, was not a good look,” she thought.
Bridget folded the policy and tucked into the pocket of her skirt. She moved to the front porch to greet the police. “Tears, I need tears. Tearful, shocked wife. I need to play the part,” thought Bridget. She conjured up memories of Scotty, their deceased Scottish Terrier. The tears came. Bridget sobbed her loss. Not for Fred, but for Scotty.
A middle-aged man, dressed in a black business suit, emerged from the IPD police cruiser. He introduced himself to the housewife, “Ian O’Brien, head of homicide. You called. Who’s the deceased?”
“My husband, Fred Calley. He’s in the dining room.”
“How did you find the body?”
“I came home from mother’s this morning. The door was wide open. He was lying in the dining room when I found him. Oh my god, I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Please stay here while I examine the body.”
Detective O’Brien left Bridget on the porch to investigate Fred’s death. She stood looking out at the neighborhood. Sirens disturbed the morning once again. Police cars pulled up at a house down the block. The Jones’ residence.
Bridget ventured from the porch to investigate. Her neighbors blocked her advance. “Bridget, what happened? Is it Fred?” Summoning up memories of Scotty and sobbed, “Fred! Someone murdered Fred!”
Janice, her next door neighbor, hugged her, patted her back, and said, “Oh you poor dear.” The other neighbors encircled the two, comforting the grief stricken woman. Bridget couldn’t keep her attention away from the Jones’ residence.
She wiped her tears from her face. “If today couldn’t get any worse, police at the Jones’,” said Bridget. The group turned in unison to the police cars parked down the street. “I need to see if Mrs. Jones is okay. Fred had been such a dear, helping her since her husband’s death.”
The group followed Bridget to the Jones’. Old man Farley stood out front of the house. Bridget queried, “Mr. Farley, what happened?”
“Mrs. Jones had been murdered. Her boy found her dead this morning.”
Bridget saw the five-year old with uniformed police officers. She asked Mr. Farley, “How do you know she was murdered?”
“I overheard Jeremy talking to the police officers. The woman was sliced to ribbons. Furniture smashed.”
“And the boy slept through that?”
Mr. Farley simply shrugged. “Maybe, or he hid under his bed. I don’t know.”
Upon her return to her home, Detective O’Brien waited for her on the porch. As she climbed the stairs, the detective was preoccupied with the police cars down the street. He nodded towards the house down the block, “You know the Jones?”
Bridget nodded. “Fred used to help out. You know, home repairs. Mrs. Jones is widowed and has a little boy to raise.”
“Anyone around here have a beef with her?”
“No, no, no. She is, was, a sweet woman.”
“And your husband?”
“Well, he is a lawyer. Maybe, a disgruntled client or litigant. Fred never confided with me, if he’d been threatened. His partners were happy. Fred won many cases for his firm.”
“I’m sorry to ask this, but how was your relationship with your husband?,” asked Detective O’Brien.
“Great for the most part. You know how marriages can be. They have their highs and lows. We were planning a Mediterranean cruise next month. A wedding anniversary gift.”
The police officer standing by the patrol car yelled at Detective O’Brien, “Hey, Lieutenant, I just got another call. You’re wanted elsewhere.”
Detective O’Brien produced his business card, handing it to Bridget, “You’ve think of anything, people who may have a grudge with your husband, don’t hesitate to call.” As the detective started to leave, he noted a bulge of paper in her skirt. He flashed Bridget a suspicious look as he left.
Bridget wasn’t able to go inside until midafternoon as police, detectives, forensics and coroner’s attendants inhabited her home for hours. Alone in her home, she locked the door. She went back to the kitchen to have that much needed drink.
As she poured her sherry, a voice startled her, spilling the fortified wine on the kitchen counter. “So far, so good, Bridget.”
Medea walked into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, climbed on to it and sat. Bridget fumed at the doll, “Why did you have to kill Mrs. Jones? Her death throws suspicions back my way.”
“Rage has no governor,” remarked the doll. “I simply followed your cue. Oh, by the way, I took care of Gladys for you.”
“You did what? The police are bound to come back and snoop around. Why don’t you just paint a target on my back?”
“Again, your rage guides me. I should not have left little Jeremy or Bobby live, but there’s still time.”
Aghast, Bridget said, “But they’re children.”
Medea laughed, “So were mine. But I murdered them all the same. A woman scorned. Bridget, you’ve been wronged. I’m just here to clean up.”
“Please stop. I have my revenge.”
“But your anger is not over. Therefore, I’m not done. By the way, thoughts on mom. I sense love, hate.”
“Stop this, you have to stop this,” pleaded Bridget.
“No doing!”
Bridget raced into the living room looking for the paperback of spells. She found it tucked in between her romance novels. She skimmed through the table of contents. Summoning, love potions, curses. No counter spells. Tucked in the back, Bridget found the salesman’s business card. She dialed the number hoping he’d pick up. A voice answered, “I take it Mrs. Calley you want that counter spell now.”
“Yes, yes, please, please bring it.”
“Give me a few. I’ll be right over.”
Bridget returned to the kitchen, sat across from the doll and drank her sherry. After her third glass, there was a knock at the door.
The salesman stood at the threshold holding the index card in his left hand. Bridget gave him the twenty dollars in exchange for the card. Apotheker instructed her, “All you have to do is recite the words on the card.”
She returned to the kitchen with the card in hand and faced the devil doll.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned Medea.
Bridget recited the text on the index card, “Hanc bestiam dimitte. In ignibus Inferni eam combure. Animam meam pro hac inquisitione.” The kitchen faded. The spell transported Bridget to a new realm, the sky painted crimson, forever at dusk. A creature stood before her. Large wings hung on its back. Two large horns sprouted from it’s forehead. Skin painted black. Eyes burned fire.
“Welcome, Bridget. We’ve been expecting you,” said the demon.
“I don’t understand,” replied Bridget.
“Read your card.”
Bridget read the index card, now translated into English, “Send this creature away. Burn it in the fires of Hell. My soul in return for this request.”
“Follow me Mrs. Calley. You have an appointment with the wall.”
As she was chained to the infernal wall, Bridget heard Apotheker’s laughter, “Glad to be of service, Mrs. Calley.”