Greg didn’t show up at Pam’s funeral. Neither did he weeks later. I called over all his friends and known relatives with little to no result. Some even were openly blaming me for his disappearance.
The month I spent after was a month of walking aimlessly on the streets of the town hoping that one day among the mass of people that managed to become more than faceless to me, one day I’ll recognize familiar features. It was a month of not sleeping and barely eating. Until one day he came.
I heard knocking in my door and moments after I didn’t even have a chance to be conflicted about whether I was angry about his disappearance or happy about his appearance. All I was left - is to catch his exhausted body in my arms as he gasped upon seeing me and collapsed.
He was possessed.
I called a priest but it did nothing. He turned into something else.
Another day Greg called me a faggot. I punched him in his face and went to the bar and went really drunk.
I blacked out.
The next thing I remember was a half-naked woman yelling at me and pushing me out of her apartment. I might have seen her prior at the bar.
I blacked out again.
I was woken up by my phone: I had an incoming message. I looked around and discovered myself in the middle of some narrow side-street next to a garbage bin.
I took my phone and read the message. It was from certain Linda responcing on my appologies about talking about my gay friend all night instead of having sex with her. Apparently, I also barfed on her bed sheets. Her reply was: “Go fuck yourself!”
It was the moment when I knew - only I can help Greg. I bought a bottle of whiskey and headed home.
Upon my arrival Greg declared that his name is legion and he’s about to devour my soul. I took a large gulp and walked to the coathanger. My hand slid across Greg’s jacket. I rushed through the pockets and a piece of paper emerged from one of them. A date, time and place were written on it. Handwriting wasn’t Greg’s. On the back side there was a sigil drawn and a text inscribed: “Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius, et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius.”
Since the date in the note was of today - I knew what I had to do.
I purchased a pair of brass knuckles from a local weed pusher, tied Greg to the bed and close to 10 PM I was at the location, thoroughly soaked in both: the rain and alcohol.
It took me a few minutes to scout around the location and found something looking like a back exit of a dilapidated night club. Drawn in red, a sigil, identical to the on on the note paper, decorated the door.
I knocked. A pair of veiny eyes emerged in a small window. Silent, but breathing heavily in anticipation, eyes looked at me questioningly.
“Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius, et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius” - I spoke nervously.
The eyes disappeared and moments later the door opened.I walked inside. Densely covered in tattoos hand of the door keeper appeared from the darkness and gestured toward the direction I was welcomed to proceed.
I entered a dark corridor. The walls were covered in black velvet and in some places dim ember light was pouring out from the gaps between drapes. If it wasn’t for it - I would be consumed by complete darkness.
Suddenly something brushed across my shoulder. A tall obese man walked past me. He was completely naked, covered in a carpet of black body hair.
“Uh! New one!” - he clicked with his tongue and winked at me.
Moments later he disappeared behind the curve of the corridor.
I turned around. One of the drapings was fluttering revealing a door opening behind. I stepped closer and looked inside. It was old dilapidated space fashioned into a dresser room; complects of clothing, both male and female, thrown onto chairs and pairs of shoes across the floor.
I turned back to the corridor and walked forth.
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