Sigils for Bullies
Brent mowed him over just before practice started. The coaches were in the field house and other players were still suiting up, leaving the few witnesses available conveniently looking the other way.
Scott wasn’t looking, he was down on one knee tying his shoes. That’s what the impending doom that was Brent did, taking his prey by surprise was his power. Scott was his designated victim since the early years. Actually, it had been barely over a year since Scott’s family moved on up to a new town and a new start and a new school, but in Scott’s young world days equaled years, months were centuries, and years were eons. That made Brent his eternal bully.
The early reasons were typical. Scott was a spoiled only child, and each birthday and Christmas was filled with just about everything he asked for, which made him usually the first on the block to get the latest action figure or video game. He was quickly labeled as all kids were required to be, it was like microchipping your dog. Scott’s was The One That Got All He Wanted. Some got jealous, but it faded, others liked him and came over for play dates with his new toys, the girls didn’t care.
Brent’s jealousy didn’t fade – it mutated to hate - but he bided his time with only occasionally name-calling and staring at Scott from three-rows over in class. Beating the hell out of someone was too old-fashioned and would give Brent the wrong kind of attention, including suspension from school. That made him the only thing worse than a bully – he was a smart bully.
Scott could feel it, seeing Brent as the train on the other end of that long tunnel. He was scared every day when his mom dropped him off, throwing him from the lifeboat into the roaring sea. Brent held the door so he couldn’t get in, lasting just until the bell rang or a teacher or principal walked by.
Now they were all old enough to play football. Scott joined under duress from everyone, including his parents.
Now’s your chance to show them how tough you can be. They’ll respect you and leave you alone. The girls will like you, especially if they are cheerleaders. It’s either that or study hall, and you know what they think of kids that lounge in study hall.
So he did, and was now thankful as he lay on his injured shoulder, welcoming the pain slowly rippling from muscle to bone to nerve. It was the best pain he ever felt.
Brent loomed over him. “Now I can add another skull to my helmet, sissy!”
Oh yes, the skulls. For accomplishments on the field, the pride and joy of each player. They were halfway through the season now, and most players had one or two rows filled with skulls. Scott was tight-end, which mostly kept him out of the way. He had one skull for making a decent block but other than that, his shiny scuff-free helmet could have been a museum piece.
As he raised up favoring his injury, one well-intended player whispered for him to go back and nail Brent the same way while his back was turned. Scott chuckled at that death-sentence. He was no match for that roaring train.
What the hell, he tried and did what they told him to do. Now he could quit and study hall was looking very nice, a safe island he could swim to.
“He hates you more now, ya-know?” Randy said, watching the spinning quarter as Scott timed it on his new databank watch. It was their daily ritual that ended lunch period. Randy won this round by ten seconds, managing a careless grin as the coin fell and settled.
“Why would he?” Scott asked, scratching his shoulder, fresh out of the sling after three weeks. “He did it to himself.”
“C’mon, he’s suspended for three more games. It’s your fault as far as he’s concerned, you know how it works. Now that sling is off, and you’re fine except for that damn itch. He won’t wait much longer.”
“I know.”
Randy bounced to the vending machine and came back with two chocolate bars, as Scott’s mind filled with the train making a U-turn and barreling toward him twice as fast as before. Brent had not tried anything since for fear of being expelled altogether, but that didn’t keep Scott from looking over his shoulder every day and planning each move to avoid him. Even holding his bladder and walking past the bathroom if he saw Brent go in was now a perfected hobby.
Maybe I should put the sling back on, he thought. Faking a relapse could buy him more time, but for what? Randy slid a bar over to him. “Let’s see if we won.”
“We’re not going to win that stupid car.”
“I have the front half; we only need the rear.”
“Randy, everyone has the front half. Getting the back is like winning the lottery.”
“That’s what makes it fun to play, you never know! Wouldn’t it be cool to drive up in that classic when we get our licenses?” Randy looked at the inside of the wrapper and waved it. “Hey, another free bar!”
“Congratulations,” Scott chided as he lifted his bar up to be greeted by what he expected to be yet another free bar or another picture of the front half of a fully restored 57’ Chevy, the grand prize of a contest no doubt devised to empty the pockets of hopeful players twice as fast.
The wrapper winked at him with bright bold letters: SORRY PLEASE TRY AGAIN, ENJOY YOUR BAR!
He frowned and scratched his shoulder.
Study hall turned out to be the nice peaceful island and even better than Scott hoped for. Actually being able to finish homework at school felt like a new secret he was the first to discover. Well maybe the second, Randy had been a resident there since day one.
He slammed his notebook shut with fifteen minutes to go and lowered his head for a quick nap when Randy slid a dirty brown pamphlet over.
“The hell is this?” Scott asked with a furrowed brow and involuntarily reached over to scratch his shoulder without knowing it.
“Maybe you should get to him first. Teach him a lesson.” Randy said.
“What do you mean?” Scott asked, feeling his shoulder flare again. The front page had the initials LKOS and nothing else.
Randy pointed at the title, “Lesser Key of Solomon, this is just the first book, but it’s all you need.”
Scott flipped through the pages, in them were rows of sketches drawn within circles and square borders, like the doodling he would make when bored on a rainy day.
“Exactly what is all I need?”
“I can’t tell you how to use it, you have to want to. If you want it, you’ll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
Randy kept going like he was rehearsing a speech in front of the mirror. “This is just a printout for reference, you don’t need the real thing. Just draw the one you want to use before you imprint your intent. It has to be in your hand.”
“Imprint my intent?” Scott asked in a raised voice, then his shoulder flared up in a rush of pain so sharp he slapped it like a mosquito bite. The substitute at the desk lowered her magazine briefly. The boys smiled back, and she resumed her article on the latest formula to erase baggy eyes forever.
“Try something small,” Randy continued, “like your shoulder. Get rid of that itch.”
“Mom and I are going after school to buy some cream for it. I’ll be fine,” Scott laughed. “Look Randy, I know we like these types of movies, but I don’t believe in this stuff. That’s why I watch the movies because I wish-”
“...wish it were true,” Randy finished the thought that brought a warmth to Scott that only best friends could. At least he had this one – maybe stuck in a moment of temporary insanity – but Scott was still thankful and wouldn’t have lasted this long without him.
So like any best friend would, he decided to humor Randy and play along.
“Ok, what did you use this for?”
“First it was Valerie. You know how I always felt about her.”
Scott nodded. Val was Randy’s biggest crush. She was also the subject of every other sentence until she finally had to transfer out over the summer due to medical issues. Scott was sorry for those circumstances but thankful she was gone so he could have Randy back to himself, as selfish as that sounded.
His eyes went wide and for a second, he felt a kernel of belief. A seed planted.
“No...” Randy continued. “I mean, I never wanted her to get sick and leave. Just like me enough to go to the Honors Banquet. I never even pushed it far enough to have her kiss me. I just wanted one night to be close to her.”
“So, it worked. Right?”
Randy swallowed hard. “Sure, it was the perfect night. Then it backfired, I guess. She got to where she would stutter or just stop talking completely in the halls when I got close to her. We had to change seat assignments in Dickerson’s class because she would freeze up from sitting next to me. Then she dropped out and left over the summer. She’s fine now, from what I hear. I guess it’s because she’s away from me.”
Scott never knew those details aside from them going to the banquet together. He leaned back in his chair, shocked speechless.
“You said she was first what else did you do?” Scott asked, feeling like a detective interrogating his suspect. He could see the fear and loss of control in Randy’s eyes.
“You know the McSpadden’s dog next door to me?”
“Oh God, you didn’t!” Scott gasped, stifling a shout.
Randy held his hand up, “Don’t worry, he’s fine. I love animals as much as you do, but that little bastard hates me. I couldn’t even play in the backyard without it barking up a storm and trying to jump the fence for me. I tried a lesser Sigil on him.”
“Sigil?”
“That’s what those are called. Anyway, now he goes completely silent when I’m around and stays on the opposite end of the yard. Hell, sometimes he claws at their back door begging to be let in, just to get away from me.”
Scott flipped through the sketches again, each one just random tiny geometric shapes connected with angles and curved lines, like the paper snowflakes he made in kindergarten. Yet – also like snowflakes - these seemed to have an order to them.
“So one worked at first but backfires, and your second one seemed to work just fine. Why would I try this? I hate Brent, but I don’t want to kill him. What if what I do backfires worse than yours did?”
“That’s what I mean by starting with your shoulder, try it on yourself first.”
“Oh, great,” Scott scoffed. “Then it backfires, and I literally won’t be able to stand myself.”
“No, not if it’s just you, and you’re using it for healing. Also, you have more control in general, you’re so damn disciplined. Be pure with your intent, that should be easy for you.”
The bell rang. Scott glanced again at the Sigils and felt the seed start to sprout as he reached to scratch his shoulder again. There was an art to them, almost beautiful.
He loaded the pages in his backpack and they headed out. Rounding the corner to the front door he bumped into Brent who clasped his shoulder, mocking an apology.
“Sorry dude, how’s the limb?” Brent squeezed hard, sending a bolt of lightning through Scott’s arm, but to Scott it felt more than that. Inside that sprout was growing fast, and suddenly all he could think about was which Sigil he would choose. Maybe they were more than just doodles.
“Just don’t try the last row, I never got to those,” Randy said before splitting.
Scott was never much of an artist, but duplicating was never an issue if he had a reference. He gazed through the pages of this part of the Lesser Key called Ars Goetia. The Sigils numbered seventy-two in all; each symbol encircled by letters forming the name of the demon it represented. Of course, they were demons, you don’t summon angels for this sort of thing, at least not according to the movies he watched.
The one you want to use must be in your hand, Randy had told him, but none on the first few pages spoke to him. There was no connection or flow of power, at least not with the early ones. Scott felt no urge or feeling until the last few pages, somehow the power was stronger there, feeding that seed planted inside and causing it to grow at twice the speed he felt in study hall.
His finger stopped at the last row as another wincing pain blew through his shoulder, much worse now since his bully squeezed it. Scott had been piling on the cream his mom bought since they got home, but it wasn’t working.
Not the last ones, Randy said, don’t try those.
Scott also heard Randy say he was more disciplined, more controlled. So why not go big or go home?
His finger settled on seal #63, the letters around it spelled Andras. It was different than the others, the combination of shapes forming a face of its own. Inverted crosses hung from circlets were the eyes, the cheeks forming a jawline ending in curved hooks which almost touched the arms of the vague human form they flanked, the head of which was the nose. Yes, this was the one. Either he chose it or it was choosing him, it didn’t matter. Scott’s shoulder was vibrating fierce as he reached for some paper. As he sketched, memories of the cartoons his seventh grade English teacher let him paste on the classroom door flooded in, all drawn from the comic strips in the Sunday paper. Those were the days, he mused and paused in awe, staring at his right hand. Not only was he drawing with his bad shoulder, he was also left-handed.
Drawing with the wrong hand? Now it’s meant to be, Randy. I believe you now, and I’ll stay in control and do it right.
He finished and compared his to the original, a perfect match. The darkness outside deepened. What time was it? How long was he staring at his completed work?
That didn’t matter either. Scott limped to bed and collapsed, lethargic and fulfilled, his shoulder on fire and a tight grip on the page pressed against his chest. He dreamt of a figure with black wings and the face of a raven, armed with a glowing white saber and perched on the back of a wolf with fur darker than the void. The instructions it gave him were just as lucid, with the promise he would be fulfilled.
The next day was a rush.
Of course, the first thing Randy asked at lunch was how his night was. Scott frowned and reached over like he was going to scratch the same crappy itch, but instead gave his shoulder a hard slap and grinned.
“Good as new.”
“Awesome, just don’t broadcast it. You don’t want him to know.”
“I know, buddy, this was just a rehearsal.” Scott noticed him cupping his hand, there was a mark on the palm, barely visible. “What happened, did you hurt yourself?”
“Oh yeah, stupid potholder slipped while I was helping Dad cook dinner and burned it. I’m fine.”
“Ouch,” Scott said. “By the way, did you ever see yours? The sigil that helped you. In dreams or visions?”
“No, I backed off before it got that deep – hey – you mean you did?”
“I’m not sure...maybe.”
“Damn! You see? You are better at this! Just be careful, you need an out if this gets out of hand.”
“I will.”
“So, what’s next? Get back on the field for revenge?”
Scott spun a quarter while Randy timed it and opened another bar, hoping for the rear end of that Chevy. For that brief moment, it was another perfect lunch, until Scott felt that seed inside him sprout what felt like another foot. Lost in the blur of the coin, he planned his next move.
“No, that won’t work. I need back on the team, but not as a player. I don’t want Brent to just stay away, I want him to be scared. Like your dog next door. I want him to feel the fear he always put into me, send it back to him. I want to be the train that keeps him always looking over his shoulder.”
The coin stilled, setting a new record. Scott won by twenty seconds.
“Waterboy?” the coach asked, arms perched on each hip.
“Sure, coach, why not?” Scott replied, favoring his shoulder as if it were in the middle of a relapse. “I still want to be a part, and Study Hall is getting pretty boring.”
“You know it’s more than just water. It’s staying late to wash the jerseys...check the helmets...all of it. You sure about this?”
“Absolutely.”
“What the hell, I can use an extra hand to keep those lugs out of here. Maybe they’ll actually win a few games.
Can you start today? They’re about to head to the showers.”
“I’m on it, thanks, Coach!”
Scott marched off, leaving behind a very befuddled coach, wondering why the hell any kid would want that kind of work.
Thirty minutes later, Scott was dumping loads of jerseys and jock-straps into the washer, never caring what it looked like or what was thought of him. The sprouted seed inside was at full height now, and all that mattered were Andras instructions. It worked for his shoulder, now it would work to pass on the fear.
“Hey waterboy.”
Scott turned to see a jock strap flying at him from Brent’s thumb like a rubber band. It hit him square in the face, the scent of crotch sweat flooding his nostrils.
“Need to wash this one twice, pretty please,” Brent begged, mocking him with steepled fingers as he strutted to the showers. Scott didn’t blink. He just kept on with his mission, biding his time until he was the only one left. His intent was clear, it would be fulfilled.
Once alone, he checked the helmet straps and returned them to the player’s lockers according to the initials inside each one, setting Brent’s aside for special attention.
Randy wanted to play games at Scott’s as they would on any Friday night, but Scott cancelled for obvious reasons.
“I have to finish this, I’m not done yet.”
“Just be careful!” Randy said on the phone. “Make sure you can get out of this if you have too. My mistakes were minor. I was able to walk away and leave it behind, but it still left a mark.
“I know...I know. I’m almost done.”
He worked on his knees until dinner, when his parents asked what all that scratching and sliding around was coming from his room upstairs. Scott said it was for one of his reports where he had to build a model and promised he would be done before bedtime so he could have a free weekend to play with Randy.
Mom smiled at her dedicated boy, kissing him bye before heading off to her book club, and Dad left for a weekend fishing trip. Once they were gone, Scott rushed up and threw back the area rug in the center of his room.
Not go big or go home, go big at home.
The eight by ten-foot space beneath was filled with a replica of the Sigil of Andras, 63rd of the 72 spirits of Solomon as listed in the Ars Goetia. It took Scott all afternoon to carve it into the floorboards. His plan of intent was at full bloom inside him as Scott knelt to make the final line that closed the circle around the graven image.
The work was done on Brent’s helmet and by now was on its wearers head. Now Scott would see.
Three blocks over, Randy could see too. Using his own personal carving to look through Scott’s bedroom window as if he were standing on a ladder like a Peeping Tom. He was scared for his best friend as he watched Scott’s eyes glaze over, now seeing through Brent’s helmet.
The team’s star player was running to score a touchdown, but his desire to win was bleeding into fear. His rapid breaths increased exponentially faster than his heart could maintain.
Randy gasped as he watched Scott’s eyes turn white, behind him a set of black wings spread from the darkness accompanied by the howl of a wolf. Andras was crossing over with a shining blade raised to strike.
The connection broke as Randy darted out of his house, knowing that thing would kill Scott, using his wish as a decoy to come forth and do hell knows what to everything in its path.
“How does it feel, sissy?” Scott hissed through drool and mucus stretching to the floor. The Sigil glowed, absorbing it like food. “I added my own skull to your helmet, deep inside.” Brent’s head jerked at the voice as he screamed. “Get out of my head!” Then the view filled with stars as he collapsed. Scott laughed until he heard the breathing stop. Not like this, he wanted Brent to feel eternal fear, not death.
“No!” Scott screamed as the connection broke. “He’s not supposed to die! That’s not my intent!”
The sound behind him swelled, a laugh from another domain. A snarl and hot breath tickled his neck. He turned to see the white sword, bright enough to burn his vision.
Before collapsing, he saw the rest happen all at once through fading eyes. The blade lowered. Someone burst through Scott’s door, chanting rhythmically while holding out a glowing palm. Then the person grabbed Scott’s knife and carved a deep gash in the floor, cutting through the circle. The wolf tried to leap but was caught in midair. Andras screamed in defiance as he was swallowed up by the same darkness that had spewed him forth, leaving behind the scent of burning sulfur.
The helmet was all but completely fused to Brent’s skull and had to be surgically removed. The process damaged the sigil carved inside the upper dome, which was dismissed as some kind of good luck charm he had probably made himself. Superstition among football players his age was not uncommon. Brent’s death was postponed by Scott breaking the connection and Randy finishing the job, but official credit was given to the onsite defibrillator recently purchased by the coach. Brent’s collapse was caused by cardiac arrest and some reconstructive surgery would be in order but a full recovery – at least physical – was fairly certain.
The bully opened his eyes to see Randy hovering over him.
“Your parents stepped out for a bit; you’ll be fine.”
Brent blinked, unable to speak.
Randy laid his hand on Brent’s open palm. “Just remember two things and squeeze my hand if you understand.”
Brent did.
“First - I saved you.”
Brent squeezed again.
“Second – leave Scott alone. He’s in the next room.”
Brent squeezed harder and deep inside an urge to leap off the gurney and sprint out of the hospital surged through him. The reading on his heart monitor soared up and almost called the nurse, then his vitals leveled off and subsided just as quickly.
Randy squeezed back with closed eyes. “I’m removing the fear you just felt, but Scott wanted it to stay with you. You know what he did, and you know why.”
He opened them with his last words.
“Just stay away.”
Brent squeezed again.
The coin spun and Scott hit his stopwatch, although Randy would have to do all the seeing for him, at least for a while. The doctors could not tell for certain how long, but his vision would come back. He was already starting to see brightness underneath the bandages. Maybe blindness caused by the supernatural was more temporary than reality, hopefully ignorance was too. That plant inside him was wilted and gone.
The coin rested, and the time was tied with the previous spin. “This one’s a draw,” Randy said, and laid two chocolate bars out for the unwrapping.
“Randy...I.”
“Stop thanking me and stop blaming yourself. This whole stupid thing was my fault. Except for picking that one. I told you to stay away from the last row.”
“Yep, that part was my fault. Some of it was Brent’s fault too.”
Randy handed Scott one of the bars, “Yes it was, and the bully knows it.”
Scott paused.
“No, I didn’t do anything. Let’s just say he got the message. Your parents are probably going to get you some counseling.”
“I need it,” Scott sighed. “I owe them a lot of apologies too. Not to mention a new floor.”
“At least your eyes will heal. I had to carve my hand up to save you!”
They both laughed and held the wrappers up at the same time.
“Lie to me,” Scott said.
“Wow you won, it’s the rear.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
“Yep.” Randy tossed the wrappers. They both had the front end of that Chevy. No car today. “But playing is the fun part. Let’s get back to that, games and movies.”
“Yessir,” Scott agreed, and reclined his bed for the night.
Randy walked to the lobby and sat next to Scott’s parents who were bereft of all emotion but shock. Shocked that they never noticed her son needed help, shocked that he would attempt suicide in such a bizarre way by blinding himself first. Randy was sad for them but thankful that explanation made sense, for what it was worth.
As the story went, Scott told Randy he was going to do the deed during that last phone call because he couldn’t play football anymore and the bullying was too much. Then Randy rushed over, saving the day at the last minute by sending the most dangerous demon ever summoned back to where it came from with the power of his own sigil carved on his palm the night before and faking a burn to hide it.
Well...maybe not that last part.
About the Author
When he’s not working as an office administrator for a tech company, Kevin is either reading, writing, or watching movies – the typical habits of a boring single straight male (but he\'s fine with it). He can also be found in a quiet corner at his local library on Sunday afternoons (but don’t disturb him).