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Hallow Mass: Hallow Mass, #1
Hallow Mass: Hallow Mass, #1
Hallow Mass: Hallow Mass, #1
Ebook290 pages3 hoursHallow Mass

Hallow Mass: Hallow Mass, #1

Rating: 5 out of 5 stars

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". . . an entertaining addition to the genre of occult fiction." -- Kirkus Reviews

Unwilling warrior Mercy O'Connor finds herself compelled to battle a malevolent warlock intent on apocalyptic chaos. Inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft, this funny occult thriller finds Mercy on the campus of Miskatonic University, grappling with mastering the fine points of brutal magic known as formulae. In addition, she is beset by political correctness, scheming administrators and her own doubts and insecurities. 

Aided by a country and western-loving Zulu security guard, Mercy must adapt to rapidly changing circumstances. Can she outwit a cunning university president and violent student activists? Will Mercy muster the strength to halt a diabolical sorcerer intent on unleashing titanic monstrosities upon our planet? It's pass/fail for Mercy O'Connor with the fate of Earth as prize.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 9, 2021
ISBN9781954278073
Hallow Mass: Hallow Mass, #1
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Author

JP Mac

Mac’s short fiction has appeared in print and online, most recently in the anthology Horror: California. An Emmy-Award winning TV animation writer, JP Mac (as John P. McCann) contributed to shows such as Animaniacs, Freakazoid, Pinky and the Brain, Scooby Doo Mysteries and Kung Fu Panda. Mac is a military history buff, a former marathon coach, and a fan of Turner Classic Movies. He lives in the hills above Los Angeles with his wife, and various stuffed animals in lieu of pets. Mac is currently writing a pair of horror novellas, in addition to book two of his Hallow Mass trilogy.

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Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5

    May 25, 2018

    Hallow Mass follows several characters including Mercy, a grad student who along with several others at the university try to keep the Necronomion out of the hands of men who want to unleash monsters on the world. It had an evil dead vibe to it - comedy/horror elements and I enjoyed reading it. It was told in different styles, beginning with a kind of monologue, newspaper stories and first hand accounts from the characters. An unusual style, but it worked. Mercy was an interesting character, with obvious faults but she was relatable.
    I would definitely recommend it.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5

    Jan 10, 2017

    What a ride! This combined the Cthulhu Mythos with a delightful satire of the appalling conditions of colleges and universities all over the country wherein damfool inmates are running the asylum. I feel inspired to go back and re-read my Lovecraft as it's been a really long time. And I will definitely, absolutely, no-questions, certainly buy the rest of this trilogy.

    Because I am appalled at the conditions of the graves of academe, I don't want to give out five stars lightly - grade inflation is a curse. I won't claim that this is great literature but it surely did what a novel is supposed to do: entertain me, keep me engaged, and make me want to know what happens next. This little book definitely earned five stars.

    Now where in hell are parts 2 and 3?

Book preview

Hallow Mass - JP Mac

CHAPTER ONE

FORMULA FOR DUMMIES

They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons.

—Abdul Alhazred, The Necronomicon (Latin Version)

Just because we find it repugnant for Dunwich warlocks to worship hideous beings who will strip our world of human life and drag Earth into another dimension, does not mean we have the morality to label such behavior ‘wrong.’ Let’s celebrate our differences.

—Professor Audrey Klumm-Weebner, from her book: Old Ones, New Values—Fresh Insights on the Population of North-Central Massachusetts

IN EARLY SEPTEMBER, the campus dozed like a drunk in a hammock. A few students sun-bathed on the quad grass, tossed around a football, or read on Kindles, almost reluctant to acknowledge the start of the semester. Red brick buildings surrounded the quad in an ivy-covered rectangle, while the town of Arkham, in turn, enveloped the campus in all four directions. Above, a peaceful blue and white sky stretched across eastern Massachusetts as wind-pushed cirrus clouds slid through the heavens. Amid this tranquility, Mercy O’Connor walked quickly, a notch below running, checking her text messages.

One from Professor Morgan: ‘Tardy.’

Two from Joe Bong: ‘You are late’ and ‘You are more late.’

Her low heels clacked on the sidewalk as she angled toward the library and fished around in a side pocket of her purse for more breath mints. There’d been a glass of wine before lunch—then a frozen vodka lemon slush, but that was Erin’s fault for buying it. A third Chablis with pasta, and a Jell-O shot after leading a toast for Brianne. What was Mercy supposed to do? Abstain at a friend’s bridal luncheon?

Actually, that was what she was supposed to do—fast and abstain. Today was Pirandello’s Aegis, which probably meant multiple pressures, which meant she’d probably go home tonight with a few bruises. No, wait. She was meeting Erin for beers at that new place over in Kingsport with the cute bartender—hopefully minus facial bruises.

Beautiful features had passed by Mercy Bernadette O’Connor in small ways. Her hazel eyes were a bit too wide apart, her legs somewhat short and stumpy, heavily muscled from years of sports. Her weight was more than she wanted. Some of her friends, such as Brianne, were tall graceful women who would glide into a room. Mercy tended to burst in as if surprising a burglar.

Pulling open the heavy wooden doors, she entered the cool interior of the Henry Armitage Memorial Library, thoughts piling up like storm waves on a reef. Pirandello was Italian, but all his stinking formulae were in Greek. She hated Greek. How were you supposed to remember it, let alone recite it under stress? Why couldn’t you say the spell in Latin or English and get the same effect?

Absorbed in self-pity, she didn’t notice a short, round older colleague fall into step next to her, waving a rolled-up newspaper.

"Did you read the Scholar today? whispered the woman. They say terrible things about the Section."

No. I was at lunch.

Until now? Must be nice.

What is it, Lisa?

Someone at the administration building says you’re about to have company this afternoon.

Lisa, I haven’t got time to tease this out of you. Be direct. Be blunt. Be a guy.

The older woman frowned. I don’t know if I should tell you now.

Don’t.

Armand Deale is coming over to make Professor Morgan close the Section.

Now? This afternoon?

Lisa shrugged, That’s what I heard.

Wicked. Gets me out of formula.

Leaving a puzzled Lisa behind, Mercy entered the stacks at the back of the building, moved past rows of books to the back wall, and approached a heavy locked metal door covered by a security camera. A laminated ID hung around her neck from a lanyard. A card swipe later, Mercy entered a dusty hallway with a filthy tile floor, passing another security camera and a disabled elevator. Stairs led up to a landing, then up another flight to the Antiquity Section. Climbing the stairs, it was all Mercy could do to keep from whistling. University President Deale’s visit would mean no formulae, which meant no Greek—at least for today. And if Special Collections stayed quiet, Mercy might even squeeze in an afternoon nap.

Joseph Bongani sat tall and straight behind his metal desk. After checking his two monitors, he scowled as Mercy ascended to the second floor. Soft country and western music sounded from a Bose radio, bringing a tale of honky tonks, whiskey, and a woman too drunk to care. Mercy could smell the WD-40. That meant Joe had cleaned his pistols again. He was Paul Blart: Mall Cop, if Blart were a tall, skinny, heavily-armed Zulu with a Type A personality. The guard’s dark hands turned over homemade flash cards of sinister looking men, some quite deformed, all with very unsettling expressions as if they knew things that would cause your sphincter to void in fright. He was close to Mercy’s own age of 25—yet he acted as if he were her guardian and Mercy was his frivolous teenage ward.

Go at once to Baba Morgan.

Mercy unwrapped a fresh packet of Certs and popped two into her mouth. If you don’t mind, Joe Bong, I thought I’d hit the bathroom, then drop off my purse.

Don’t call me that. Why are you late on a day of formula?

What do you care?

What if the next horror is to come?’

You’re worse than Professor Morgan.

Baba Morgan knows evil. He readies himself.

"He watches Patton reruns, psyching himself up for a desperate fight against long odds. I’ve heard him say that."

The stars align for Hallow Mass. The whippoorwills flock in numbers. Obed Whately is said to have returned in July.

That’s before you started here, Joe.

Yes.

The old guard used to bring me coffee after his shift. Would you mind doing that?

Yes.

Mercy sighed. This stiff absolutely refused to flirt. Gay? An African nerd? Worse. An African redneck with his mandolin and banjo crap.

I’ll bet you’ve got a flashcard on Obed Whateley.

Yes.

Mercy found a photo thrust into her hands: a 1973 mug shot from the North Aylesbury PD. Two images: on the left was a small, skinny, hippish man in his early 30s with long dark brown hair and a Colonel Harland Sanders moustache. To the right was a computer-simulated mockup that made Whateley appear around 80 years old. But his green eyes were the thing: mocking, cynical, contemptuous, a combination so prevalent in the Valley of the Miskatonic as to be called the Dunwich Look, even by people who knew nothing of Dunwich, Massachusetts, formula, or the bizarre, seemingly inexplicable carnage that epitomized the region. But Whateley added a subtle infernal accent to his gaze. If eyes were the window to the soul, then Obed Whateley had the soul of a wasp. Disturbed, Mercy flipped the card back on the table.

I’m an Armitage, and even my bizarre family would not make flashcards for Dunwich warlocks.

They are not all warlocks.

Joe Bong frowned, his skin so black it almost seemed blue. With a creased gray uniform shirt, Joe wore apolished Sam Browne belt, heavy with handcuffs, mace, a nightstick ring, and a freshly cleaned .45 caliber semi-automatic. He turned away from Mercy, checked his two monitors, then returned to his flashcards.

Mercy leaned in over his shoulder, giving him a good whiff of shampoo and bath oil.

Where’d you snag the mug shots? Off the Web?

A friend in the police obtains for me the photos. He says there have been offerings on the hills in August. Monstrous things summoned.

"They haven’t got the Necronomicon. Mercy leafed through the cards, stopping on a thick-faced, dark-skinned man in his late thirties who looked like he masturbated to Islamist execution videos. Who’s this ugly suck head?"

Chester Sawyer is part human, part Outside.

What’s ‘HSF’ mean?

Hybrid, knows some formula.

Like what? Blood Fountain? They teach their kids that one.

Do you know it?

I haven’t bothered. What else can old Chester throw?

The Ring of Haroun. The Indescribable Inversion.

"Shit. That’s black stuff. Morgan demonstrated those for me on rats. It’s the only time I felt sorry for a rat. But seriously, you think these bad boys are threatening the planet? Whateley and Ahaz Johnson and the rest probably died out in the Dunwich backcountry years ago, cooking crystal meth. Or else they’re spending their twilight years on 4Chan downloading bogus copies of the Necronomicon."

They wait and prepare. We must do this also. He held up Whateley’s flashcard. I will know their faces upon sight. But you must not drink so much, and also you must practice more.

Mercy flipped him off. Practice minding your own business, Joe Bong. I thought your uncle was the priest, not you?

She spun around, her ash brown hair swirling. She really was attracted to his voice—mellow, melodic, with all manner of neat tongue clicks and kloks. She’d be enjoying it even more if he weren’t such a jerk.

Behind her he said, Do not call me ‘Joe Bong.’ And there will be a great evil soon.

Crinkling her fingers over her shoulder, Mercy sailed down the hall toward the washroom. She passed the many notices on the Special Collections door: No Photographs, No Scanning, No Loan Outs, Silence Cell Phones. She missed the previous security guard who knew the basic elements of his job: joke, flirt, and fetch Mercy Frappuccinos. So what if the guy got drunk on the job one day and pulled the fire alarm? It’s not like he had interrupted much.

Past the door to the Special Collections Library stood an old-fashioned red-and-white Coke machine that had once dispensed eight-ounce bottles. (Drink Coca-Cola!) Like a maestro bowing to a concert audience, the massive vending machine was bent almost ninety degrees, top half facing the floor. A band of melted metal encircled the machine at the bend. A few yards past the oddly deformed vending machine, Mercy turned left and burst into the Ladies Room.

Brushing her hair in the mirror, Mercy spotted all the defects on her face and none of the assets. That put her in sour mood. Between Joe Bong’s pissy scolding and Morgan’s training zealotry, she was reconsidering her plans to learn formula, then sell it. Her cousin Erin, a marketing major, felt they could make a fortune hawking a few basic formula moves, plus upsells, to the Oprah Winfrey-Eckhardt Tolle, spiritual-but-not-religious demographic. Mercy had convinced Erin it would be easy.

But that was before Mercy knew anything about formula. She thought it would be all Harry Potter point-the-wand and say-some-Latin. But Greek was the easiest language she’d encountered. There was a smattering of Sumerian, Coptic, Arabic, High German, and a mall-load of other tongues, living and dead—plus runes, symbols, charms, and cryptology . . . and then the formulae themselves, plus abstaining from food, drugs, alcohol, and sex for superior execution. It was worse than joining a convent. 

A few minutes later, Mercy doubled back down the hall, opened the door with many notices, and dropped off her purse at her desk in the Special Collections Library. She checked phone messages and cursed. Professor Arns would be coming in forty-five minutes to check out De Vermis Mysteriis as well as The Discourse of Pedro Zom. From her semi-circular workstation, Mercy glanced back at a locked cage that ran the entire length of the room: inside were the special collections stacks. She’d have to wade in there and pull both books. Mercy couldn’t say why, but the grimoires disseminated a creepy vibe. Handling certain tomes left her feeling soiled and indecent, as if she’d lingered on a website watching someone pose children with brain cancer in sexy ways.

Her phone beeped a text from Morgan. ‘You’re very tardy.’ She growled in exasperation.

Turning left out of Special Collections, Mercy passed the bowing Coke machine, the ladies’ Room, the men’s Room, and then a bulletin board covered with maps of north-central Massachusetts, astrological charts, a joke in Hebrew, saucy hieroglyphs, strange vowelless words spelled out phonetically, and a notice for a Red Cross blood drive. Speeding down the hall, shoes clicking on the tile, she walked by an unusual drinking fountain to her right. Mounted on the wall, crafted vintage white enamel with a metal side handle, the drinking fountain's bowl was oddly warped. Enamel rippled in layers as if heated whitehot, and then cooled rapidly like candle wax. But it still dispensed water if you didn’t mind a little water on your clothes.

Mercy passed closed office doors with old-fashioned, pebbled glass panels. Some doors were stenciled with names and titles of long-gone Antiquity Section academics: Armitage, Rice, Morgan, Doucette, St. John. For some reason, she thought of her Great Uncle Louis Armitage, sitting on his porch, chain-smoking with a thousand-yard stare. Then there was the wasting death of Galen Rice, who’d been acolyte to Uncle Louis at the ’91 Horror. Galen’s mind sizzled during the clash, leaving him a docile idiot at 27, buried at 34. Mercy had been a little girl at his funeral.

Flipping back her hair, she thought of Kingsport and a bar stool with a view of the sea, a chilled Lime-A-Rita, and a yummy bartender.

At the hallway's end, Mercy stopped before a closed door. On the pebbled glass, under the title of Antiquity Chairman, was the stenciled Latin phrase: Ignis Aurum Probat.

Mercy popped in two more Certs, rapped twice on the Aurum, and stormed inside.

She almost tripped over a barrel marked Powder of Ibn Ghazi, atop which lay an industrial paint sprayer. All around were parchments and scrolls in Tibetan, French and Latin. Astrological charts. Translated English pages from The Emerald Tablet; books and scolls by Cornelius Agrippa, Hermes Trismegistus, Heinrich Kramer’s The Witch Hammer; the Kabbalah. There were squares and circles and six-pointed Stars of David, and five-pointed pentacles mixed in with a rack of running medals for distances ranging from 3.1 miles to half-marathons.

A raised oak table top held a version of John Dee’s Sigillum Dei Aemeth or Seal of the Truth of God, a bewildering decoder of mystic lore consisting of heptagons encasing a Pentagram surrounded by the names of planets, and angels, and the seven names of God. On the floor of the huge office, yards of carpet had been ripped up and the wood underneath covered in white and pastel chalk marks outlining Pentagrams new and long-since smudged.

In one corner stood a dozen metal waste bins, bunched together like penguins. Their openings had been melted shut, making them appear like large, pinched-together Dixie cups. Mercy couldn’t help beaming in pride: that had been her finest hour in formula.

Behind a cluttered desk, Mercy could discern the outline of a computer screen and the neatly cropped, greying hair of Professor Morgan. An acerbic voice arose from behind the clutter, How can you show so much interest in formula, and so little interest in the self-discipline necessary to excel? You are crippling your chances to advance, and jeopardizing us all right before a critical Hallow Mass.

Sorry, Professor. I got tied up in traffic.

You fasted, of course, and abstained from alcohol?

Absolutely. Though I might have had a small glass of wine.

Your indiscipline will cost you, and possibly the planet.

Mercy blocked a major eye roll. She really wanted a nap. Oh, Professor, Armand Deale’s on his way over. And Professor Arns will be in Special Collections any minute. I still need to pull his books. Could we pick this up tomorrow morning first thing?

A piece of blue chalk flew up and over a mound of papers. Mercy snagged it one-handed. With three older brothers, she was good at catching things thrown suddenly in her direction.

Pirandello’s Aegis. Quickly, please.

Glaring at the chalk, Mercy scanned the floor, located a relatively clear patch, knelt on an old shop rag and began drawing the aegis, a modified version of Eliphas Levi’s Tetragrammaton Pentagram.

Conrad Morgan slid back his chair. Runner-thin, early fifties, with sharply pressed dress shirt and slacks, an orange-and-black Princeton tie, polished shoes, and a Marine Corp Eagle, Globe and Anchor ring, the professor looked less like a mage and more like an insurance company actuary. He watched Mercy chalk the capital letters T and E.

Place a numeral one over the T and a two over the E.

Mercy drew in the numbers, smacking down the chalk extra hard.

Morgan said, I was in my third year of study before your great uncle let me tackle Pirandello. If Louis ever answered my phone calls, I’d tell him to be proud of you. Does he still watch the Red Sox?

Mercy chalked in a T R A with one two three above each letter followed by a cup. I heard he quit paying attention after they finally won the series. He does occasionally mention the 1990 team.

Morgan’s smile was bittersweet. Roger Clemens, Tony Pena, Wade Boggs. The stinking Oakland A’s. My reserve unit deployed that summer.

Desert Storm.

Desert Shield, then Desert Storm in January when the shooting started.

Mercy slowed in her drawing of G R A M. She didn’t feel well. Mixing drink styles had that effect. Her brother Kevin always said, Don’t mix paint with bleach. But he worked in a hardware store and his aphorisms tended to reflect that. Mercy always grew experimental when someone else was buying. Could she run out the clock and keep Morgan talking until Deale arrived?

Aren’t you worried about Deale?

Morgan stood, paced, mind elsewhere. He’s got a reputation for playing nasty back at Mountain View State, but we’re protected by our charter, not to mention great friends like the Isaac Levinson Foundation.

She chalked in a pair of human eyes representing spirit. And why do I have to keep drawing Pirandello?

You mean, other than your life depending on it?

If this Pentagram were drawn out ahead of time on a large piece of thick paper, would it be effective protection, or would I need to physically draw it out each time?

Morgan still paced, shifted his jaw, lips together. Intriguing. Could be effective; might be; should be tested first. Are you thinking of some sort of ready-to-go Pentagram in case of emergency?

Mercy thought it best to avoid mentioning that Erin wanted to mass produce Pentagrams as an upsell, like yoga mats. She’d also lined up an IT guy, a videographer, and was split testing catchy marketing phrases such as wicca with balls. Erin had a money guy interested in underwriting their business venture but wanted to see a little formula sample before committing. But for all her cousin’s excitement, Mercy reflected that Erin wasn’t the one on her knees drawing boring ancient shit. Mercy answered, You know, Professor, that sounds like a good idea.

Morgan adjusted his bifocals, sliding them down his nose as he picked a parchment off his desk. Ready-made Pentagrams. I’ve missed having someone around here who thought ahead. Outstanding idea. You might work out, Mercy, despite your breezy, half-assed approach and complete disbelief in our mission.

Mercy chalked in A and M and a sword beneath the letters. She decided to fish for formula compliments Aren’t my invocations stellar?

You’re excellent at sealing. Rotten at Selective Inferno and struggling with Pirandello’s Aegis because of an overall lack of self-discipline and will.

I’m a 21st century chick. Fasting and abstinence went out with the Middle Ages.

Glancing up, Mercy noticed the wrinkles around Morgan’s eyes, spreading out like cracks in lake ice as he said, "Sadly, your attitude is not uncommon, even within our families. It’s been a challenge to keep curators and acolytes and a high caliber of guards. And ever since Andy St. John left for Stanford, there’s been

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