Teagan Makes Contact

By: TMax

First version published on StoriesOnline.net

Second and expanded version published on zbookstore.com

Copyright © by TMax - tmax02610@gmail.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Max Thomasson at tmax02610@gmail.com.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Although, would love it if this actually happened :)

Book Cover by TMax

Second Version edition 2025

Teagan Makes Contact

With my eyes closed, I rehearse the ritual steps, the words, and the requirements, a bright red checkmark for each step. While I want the ritual to work, I hope it fails; the possible consequences scare me more than the fire and brimstone in hell.

Lore sits cross-legged with sweaty hands in Chars and mine. Her dark black eyes roam around the basement room, and her purple lips glisten and frown. The weak link, if this fails, her fault. A poser of the worst sort, someone who believes for all the wrong reasons. She does this as a cry for help.

“Do we have enough crystals?” Lore asks. I resist the urge to scold her. She loves to hear herself talk.

Lore licks her lower lip, frowns, glances down at the crystals, and then up at me. A purple spot on her front tooth mars her yellowish teeth with too much plaque buildup. I avoid her gaze and stare past her shoulder at the inverted cross and a discount devil poster beside it. The blood-red walls absorb the feeble light from the flickering candle. Who decorates their room like this? And what type of parent lets them?

I close my eyes and say, “It’s fine.”

“I couldn’t find enough red ones. Do you think purple is ok?” Lore asks. The color doesn’t matter, but Lore wouldn’t listen when I told her. We could use rainbow sparkles, and the ritual would work or not.

Impatience for this child grows as her voice trembles and her fingers wiggle in mine. I close my eyes tighter, take three deep breaths, before I say, “They’re fine.”

I remind myself that I need her. The ritual requires three.

“Do we need to light more incense?” Lore asks. God, anymore, and we all die of cheap clove. I wish I could do this on my own. Her moist and too-hot hand squeezes mine. How can she live with herself? She can’t. Except for me, only a person who hates themselves would attempt this ritual. I love myself, but this ritual will give me lots of power, enough to punish mother and father, leave home, and maybe even find a good husband.

“No. It’s fine. It’s all fine,” I say and force myself to breathe the stupid incense. Why did the ritual need this type, so foul, it will linger in my hair for weeks, even after extensive washing. I hope this works. It needs to work. Char remains steadfast, but Lore needs a chill pill. I knew I should have gotten Morg to hook me up with something to drug her.

“What about the pentagram? Is it straight enough?” Lore asks. It doesn’t matter. The intent matters, and I measured the pentagram when I made it. She knows that. She watched me from her bed with her fingers in her mouth. Useless. Just a body that I need for the ritual.

I open my eyes and glare at her. Her gross, moist hand squeezes mine harder. Her legs bulge out from too-tight shorts, and the strained horned devil shirt rises and falls too quick. Hopefully, she will hyperventilate and pass out soon. Char’s dry hand barely holds mine.

“What do we say now?” Char asks. She has a sweet voice. Hard to believe that she would even do this, but you never can tell a person by their exterior.

I lower my voice and say, “Repeat after me.” God, I so hope this works.

“Diabolus.”

“Diabolus.”  “Diaboulas?”

I roll my eyes and tighten my lips. An infant could do this. A toddler could pronounce it. Intent, intent matters; everything else helps a person focus on the intent. Intent, I mentally repeat over and over.

“Diabolus.”

“Diabolus.”  “Diabolos?

Fucking useless warm body. Too late to find someone else. Stupid Satanists in this town do not advertise themselves like Christians. I need to remain thankful for finding these two. Intent. She at least means it, at least I hope she does.  

I sigh then intone, “Ligamen.”

“Ligamen.”  “Ligaman?”

Thank God we started early. This may take all night.

“Diabolus. Ligamen,” I say with increased tempo. Louder, faster.

“Diabolus. Ligamen.”  “Diaboulass-Ligaman”

“Diabolus. Liga…”

The world turns red, and something bites into my brain.

****

Consciousness begins.

The waxed strings burn at their base while only a faint clove odor remains. The family dwelling remains whole, but the vertical dividers spin and wobble in the almost-dead light. My thinking organ does not feel complete.