Kevin Wikse vs. The Cabal of Cambodian Sorcerors

I chose this rural fortification in Marsing, Idaho, for the privacy it offered and the particular energy it exuded. The walls were a canvas of messy graffiti tags, quickly scrawled upside-down pentagrams, and sloppy spellings of "Satan" alongside the ubiquitous "666." Holes were kicked and punched in the walls, and the shattered glass from broken windows and beer bottles crunched beneath my boots. My intuition was correct. This space was steeped in a rich history of emotional angst, pangs of helplessness, and unfettered rage—the exact flavor of mana I required.

But I wanted more. My familiar spirits whispered that the prime location was yet to be discovered. The upper floor needed to be tactically unsound. While this was a lonely place, the flickering candlelight visible from the windows could still pique the curiosity of uninvited guests. Who or what roamed the Idaho farmlands in the pitch of night was not the equation I was here to explore. However, cocking back the hammer on my .44 Magnum and unsheathing my Bowie knife, I would solve that riddle if necessary.

Reaching out with my psychic senses, I searched for the operation's "ground zero." Like Theseus, I followed an etheric tether to the derelict kitchen and then to a door. The knob was stuck, probably rusted. How many others had tried to open this door, I wondered. None with my level of superior grip strength. Years of one-handed levering 16lb to 20lb sledgehammers and swinging the heaviest clubs and maces had forged my hands into rugged implements of industrial strength and violence.

Grasping the knob in my right hand, I applied my will against it. The knob screamed in surrender with a loud, sharp crack, like the snapping of bone. A single hard tug and the door opened. Dank and lifeless air rushed past me.

The basement gasped for breath.

Aiming my flashlight down the narrow, steep steps, I descended into the house's bowels. The iron guide rail came loose, clanging against the cement wall. A strange sensation stirred in response. Likely, it had been years since anyone else traversed these steps. I had disturbed something's resting place. The basement was grimy and damp, with cracks in the brick-and-mortar letting the outside world slowly seep in. Wooden shelves lined the walls, stocked with old cans of food and cobwebs. The basement's treasures amounted to a few rotting cardboard boxes containing miscellaneous homewares and a cluttered pile of moldering clothes.

Here was ground zero.

The metaphysics of the basement were exceptionally optimal. Heavy energy spilled in from above, pooling into the house's lowest point and condensing into a miasma of distilled anger. I switched my flashlight to its lantern setting and began the ceremony preparations. I drew the parameters of my magical circle with holy chalk, reinforced the circle's border with sacred names, and boldly defined the cardinal points.

My familiar spirit pointed to an apparition that had partially manifested. I was not alone. At least one spirit dwelled here—an older Hispanic woman in a tattered uniform, sitting with her knees pulled into her chest and her hands covering her face, shaking in distress. I gently whistled at her, an ancient method of communication with the dead. Spreading her fingers, she peered back at me with one eye. I entered a light medium's trance.

I got the impression she was a migrant and field worker from the 1920s. Her bones were nearby, though not buried in the basement. I saw a man, Hispanic or Native, who might be her husband. He was calling for her, and she was calling for him. I whispered, "Estella?" She nodded. She had been trapped and stewing in this dark energy, confused and desperate to leave.

She sent me visions of the basement as it appeared in the realm of the dead—a cavernous complex with many tunnels leading in and out. Predatory creatures, a cross between humans and cockroaches, skittered around, patrolling for lost souls to eat. She mimicked a fast-biting motion with her mouth. I stood up to get my backpack, and she faded from view. I retrieved a white candle and blessed Basil and Hyssop water from my supplies, sprinkling the ground where she had been sitting and affixing the candle. Lighting it, I petitioned Saint Clair to make Estella’s path to escape visible so she could reunite with whoever that man was.

With at least one distracting spirit hopefully released, I could begin my night’s Magnum Opus—the evocation and conjuration of Duke Abigor, the field marshal and ruler of sixty legions, the fifteenth astral demon of the Lemegeton, Ars Goetia. I pulled a bottle of premium whiskey and a cigar from my pack, spraying whiskey and blowing cigar smoke to the four corners. I asperged with the blessed water of Basil and Hyssop using a scourge made of nine bound rosemary sprigs. Soon a white cloud of scented smoke, illuminated by seven large, strategically placed white candles, filled the basement.

For weeks, I had been entrenched in spiritual warfare with a sorcerer and necromancer in Indonesia. A man had contacted me, asking for potent spiritual protection work. He believed he had been cursed by an ex-business partner in Cambodia. His personal life was in ruins, and his business was hemorrhaging money. He started to dream about a dead baby sitting on his chest at night, with eyes full of blood and sharp teeth. Soon after, his employees began stealing from him and threatening him with violence, and his health deteriorated quickly.

I conducted an initial set of divinations and energetic cleansings. Some of his business problems were the result of bad choices, but a highly malevolent vampire entity devouring his astral body was confirmed. I marshaled my spiritual forces and began a frontal assault on the entity. With the direct assistance of Saint George and the exorcisms of Saint Cyprian, I removed it from my client, trapping it in a specially prepared spirit bottle.

In the interrogation, I learned the spirit was that of an aborted baby, bound into slavery by a sorcerer during a midnight ritual at a cemetery. The baby's body was roasted over a fire with dog bones as kindling, bound with a magical red string that constrained its free will. I could not break the binds but loosened them enough to allow the spirit to attack its master, maybe long enough to kill him. The spirit agreed, and I set it loose to take its revenge.

This ignited a vicious back-and-forth battle between myself and the Cambodian sorcerer, launching various grades of spirits at each other with enchantments to boost their destructive power. I was relentlessly stalked in my dream time by a chimera creature—a shark-sized river fish merged with a tiger in a swampy marshland. Eventually, I killed it, intuitively knowing I had caused significant psychic harm to the necromancer. The activity temporarily ceased until I again felt an unsettling presence. The sorcerer was no longer working solo.

Once again, I performed a battery of spiritual consultations and scryings. I learned the sorcerer had recruited at least two others to assist in killing me. I had zero interest in a prolonged occult battle against three Cambodian sorcerers and necromancers. A summoned spirit informed me that the other two had no vested interest in me. I must eliminate the main sorcerer, and they would cease their attacks. The spirit suggested I enlist Duke Abigor to champion my cause. Tonight, I heeded its sage advice. By conjuring Duke Abigor, I announced my declaration of war. I would bargain with him to draw up the battle plans for absolute victory and stage a magical warfare campaign to sever the snake’s head.

As I took to the center of my magical circle and began to intone the Kabalistic prayer, a sudden and overwhelming sense of malice nearly overtook me. A sickly, putrid odor attempted to permeate through my fumigation, and the atmosphere grew heavier with a palpable sense of evil. The Cambodian sorcerer had been alerted to my work. With the help of his allies, he sought to disrupt my ceremony. My preliminary work, magical circle, and banishing rites kept their nefarious influence at bay, but he was too strong for me to dismiss entirely.

My eyes noted the eerie shadows moving and formulating into undulating shapes. I heard whispers that grew into shouts, promising vulgar and inescapable death. Then came the skittering. I recalled Estella's images of human cockroaches in the realm of shadow. The horrible pitter-patter of thousands of chitinous legs scurried toward my circle.

I braced myself for what came next. The shadows swirled, configuring into a giant centipede. My spiritual Godfather's words steadied me. If I succumbed to fear or allowed it to paralyze me, I would seal my doom. The energy of fear leaking from my aura would only nourish this baneful creature. It crept along the radius of my circle, poking and prodding for any weakness.

The Cambodian sorcerers had summoned the earthbound and hungry dead—larvae, or lemures—driven mad by necromantic agitations. All woven together, these bottom-feeding dead now formed the horrid insectoid I faced.

I settled my gaze upon the sigil of Duke Abigor, the structure for the psychic passage allowing communication with the spirit. Slowly tracing the sigil's lines with my eyes, I fell into a light trance. I saw Duke Abigor on his horse, on the edge of the Astral realm near my circle. My preparation and psychic outbursts had garnered his interest.

The sound of his nightmare steed helped drown out the skittering and screaming. I resumed the Kabalistic prayer. Midway through the opening conjuration, a sharp, searing pain in my shin broke my concentration. Another pain on the back of my leg and one above my ankle. The army of hungry ghosts had not bypassed my circle, but a deployment of Hobo spiders had, climbing up my boots and pants.

A painful bite on my tricep, just above my elbow. I ran my hands across and down my head and neck, shook my jacket, and stomped my feet. Hobo spiders fell out from inside my pant legs and off my shirt and jacket.

Duke Abigor spoke from across the veil, manipulating the material plane.

"If you feed your fear, your enemies will feed on you," he stated curtly.

I resisted the urge to act frantically. Duke Abigor was right. Frantic energy would grant the Indonesian sorcerers greater leverage over me. I callously ground each Hobo spider into paste with my boot heel. The spiders propelled toward me, controlled by the Cambodian sorcerers.

With steely resolve, I brought Saint George's image into my mind's eye. I felt his presence and my heart ablaze with courage. Finishing the conjuration, I commanded Duke Abigor to "move and appear before me." As his presence settled in, the sorcerers' influence waned. Before me was Duke Abigor, dressed for battle, his steed eager to enter the fray.

"You need an army to go to war. I have sixty legions of bloodthirsty soldiers ready for the job," Abigor said.

"I know you do, Abigor. Shall we discuss your price?" I replied.

"My war coffers must be filled!" Abigor roared. "And my mentoring you before my official summons will be tallied into the full amount."

"That is fair, Abigor," I agreed. "Now let us discuss the battle plan."

-Kevin Wikse