Chapter 4

And so, with sociopathic devotion, the practice of child sacrifice began. Innocent dozens perished during his insane quest for omnipotence. Yet, for all his malevolence and dedication, Reynolds Lovingdale I never again passed through the door to the netherworld as he thought he had that fateful day in May, 1780. His labors continued for nearly twenty more years until a son, sired in the womb of one of his debauched captives, was born.

He predictably named the boy Reynolds Lovingdale II. Most of the child’s nurturing fell to the baby’s teenage mother and a succession of nannies. In all fairness, though, the father did dote upon the newborn on occasion. It was the father’s intention from the beginning to instill in his spawn the same ignominious pursuits that dominated the last thirty years of his own life.

Reynolds I, presenting himself as the Marquess of Lovingdale, began design and construction of Lovingdale Manor is the wild reaches of Vermont shortly following the birth of his son. He imported hundreds of slaves and hordes of ivory from the African coast, rare exotic sandalwood and rosewood from Southeast Asia and South America, and Calacatta marble and alabaster from Europe. No indulgence was too vulgar, no expense too excessive. In less than three years, the tremendous effort was complete.

The family moved to their incomparable estate at once. During his son’s formative years, the Marquess introduced the young Earl to the natural world in its infinite diversity. Field trips routinely culminated in the tortuous death, dismemberment and dissection of whatever creature failed to elude their inquisitive grasps.

Throughout his teenage years, Reynolds Lovingdale II absorbed and practiced hundreds of secret incantations utilizing props and ceremonial attire donned to convince scouting demons of his sincere dedication to his craft. These incantations, culled from countless manuscripts his father acquired during his studies, were the cornerstones of the foundation from which his monument to Evil would rise.

However, black magic did not monopolize every minute of his life. Indoctrination in the areas of business, commerce and finance engaged him as well. It was paramount that the Lovingdale incomes continue to roll in reliably, if the family’s gentrification were to continue. Was the love of money, after all, not the root of all evil? Manna’s ready availability was essential for ceremonial funding, and its influence removed the pressing need for necessities and afforded protection in their harsh and discriminating world.

When the Earl of Lovingdale reached a level of sufficient mastery over his studies a cadre of elite Masonic northern capitalists, of which Reynolds I was a member, heartily inducted him into their fellowship. Collectively, they prospered from the backbreaking efforts of over-tasked workers who labored endlessly in the various mining, textile and agricultural interests “The Order” controlled. Their tentacles extended from the major metropolitan centers in the Mid-Atlantic region to the Maine Territories in northern New England.

The Lovingdale connections to southern plantations, where cotton was soon to be king, added immeasurably to the enterprising association’s capitalist dominance. The Order commanded hundreds of slaves to pick the cotton. Their railroads shipped the coveted raw material north and cotton gins south. Their financial institutions provided competing plantation owners with long-term high interest credit, and an impressive fleet of steam and sailing ships transported their burgeoning inventories abroad. Times were grand. Yet despite enormous material wealth, mounting opportunities and diligent and industrious application, the spiritual keys to the spectrum of occult knowledge remained elusive.

In 1840, Reynolds I transferred complete and final ownership of his substantial holdings into the competent hands of Reynolds II. Along with his inheritance, he passed instructions that his heirs should “loosely” honor his homeland’s tradition of peerage, and adopt appropriate titles to convey their rightful social standing. In 1846, Reynolds Lovingdale II celebrated the birth of his own son, anointing him Viscount Reynolds Lovingdale III. Beaming patriarch and boastful new father toasted the fortuitous occasion with much fanfare and celebration.

The close-knit conspiratorial research betwixt father and son into the practice of sorcery continued until Reynolds I passed away in his sleep during the winter of 1852. The Order saw to all wake and funeral arrangements. Strangely, although hundreds attended the services, the deceased body was denied public viewing. A bronze bust of the departed prominently affixed atop the mahogany lid of a gilded casket with ivory handles served as surrogate during visitation. Inquiries remained unaddressed by The Order as to the unusual nature of the closed service and were summarily dismissed.

 

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From the day of his birth at Lovingdale Manor, Reynolds Lovingdale III, or “Rennie”, as he came to be called, enjoyed an idyllic childhood. Springing from the loins of progenitors of such high social eminence afforded him access to all the luxuries outstanding wealth provided.

A host of nannies and personal valets meticulously attended to their young lord’s needs. As he grew into adulthood, the perpetual indulgences of his formative years left him jaded and difficult. Not content to have his wishes merely fulfilled, he exacted his desires at the appreciable expense of anyone unfortunate enough to be within range.

The scope of his demands grew exponentially in frivolity until his emotional development stagnated and regressed to a near infantile state. He persistently refused to bathe and dress himself for no reason other than the disproportionate pleasure he experienced through bending others to his depraved will. At the slightest provocation, he struck out aggressively with a horsehair whip he religiously carried. Once, he tore an eye from the socket of an apologetic manservant because the attendant neglected to powder his master’s foot before applying its brocade silk stocking.

Perhaps, the manifest example of the young sadist’s obscene personality was his habit of forcing attendants to catch his excrement in a paper bag. This, they were instructed to secure in their apron pocket while they wiped their master’s rear clean to his satisfaction. Only then did he dismiss them to extricate the repulsive burden from their person.

Had it not been for the irreproachable social standing and power of the Lovingdale name, Rennie’s head would have adorned the bedpost of any one of his humiliated and tortured underlings. His timely execution would have elevated his assassin to sainthood in the eyes of his peers. As things stood, servers and attendants remained sullen but compliant. They endured the whims of their master for the sake of their families so reliant on the pittance they received for their insufferable labors.

In April 1885, twenty years to the day after General Robert E. Lee surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia, the Earl of Lovingdale died, leaving his son and sole heir in control of the family dynasty. Remarkably, the Civil War that ravaged the southern states of the Confederacy and divided the nation for four terrible years left the Lovingdale fortune unscathed. True, the Emancipation Proclamation decimated all slave-related interests, but the various other holdings in the Lovingdale Empire continued to thrive.

For the next seventeen years, Viscount Lovingdale, known as Squire Lovingdale to commoners ignorant of his family’s privileged lineage, continued his diabolical practices and indefensible cruelties with fiendish delight. The astute pupil mastered the lessons of Satanism well. A storehouse of supernatural wisdom, gleaned from the ancient texts aggregated over decades by two generations before him, offered priceless insights and experience that would have taken him three lifetimes to otherwise acquire.

Business associates, politicians and newspapermen alike grew to hate him and reviled him at every opportunity in the forum of public debate. Squire Lovingdale took it all in stride, concentrating his warped sensibilities on the indoctrination of his four children. The children’s mother, Grace, died during the birth of their fourth child. Consequently, the father assumed dictatorial control over his progeny’s education and enlightenment.

The desperation of continued failure in achieving notable results in his practice of the devil arts ignited in him a determination unlike any he had previously known. His grandfather had nearly “captured the light”, as he had put it, and hailed the Dark Day of May 19, 1780 as the hallmark of his endeavors and a tremendous milestone of achievement in his chosen craft. Yes, his grandfather certainly set the bar high.

The Squire would have to plot a new course into territory yet unexplored by the Lovingdales. He would have to dig deeper into the belly of demonology, probe its entrails and commit his resources fully towards realizing his ultimate ambition. In early 1901, he liquidated his assets, except for Lovingdale Manor, and retired from public life. Days, weeks and months sequestered in the inner chambers of his mansion melted away. Laboring feverishly with scarcely a break for nourishment, he flooded the stale air with spells, incantations and conjurations steeped in cosmic synergy.

The children rarely saw their father for weeks on end. A succession of caregivers attended to the children’s physical needs, but when inquisitiveness as to the Squire’s secret activities preoccupied a servant’s thoughts that employee mysteriously vanished.

On October 1, 1901, on the eve of a great late season thunderstorm, Squire Lovingdale experienced a flash of genius. The vision might well have been delivered on a bolt of lightning�"such was the immediacy and clarity of his epiphany. His head spun deliriously, and time as he knew it ceased to exist.

Everywhere he looked, evidence of his newly discovered truth rang out in confirmation. Ropes and wooden planks collected for no apparent reason took on new significance. The steel edge of cutting weapons gleamed with heightened brightness. The imagery on tapestries and imported floor coverings swirled into reconfigured patterns, all eerily suggestive and profound.

His direction gelled overnight. The following morning, he put his ultimate bestial act into play. When his work was complete the devil would hold title to his soul, but Squire Lovingdale would achieve immortality. He, alone, would hold worlds and universes at bay through all the coming ages and the Lovingdale name would live on in infamy.

Reynolds labored tirelessly until All Hallows Eve, when he dismissed the servants early so their intrusive presence would not impede the flow of his genius. He carefully prepared a powerful opiate-laced nightcap and insisted his children consume equal draughts of the bitter beverage in his presence before leading them upstairs to their respective bedrooms. The potent cocktail had the desired effect in minutes with the youngest daughter, Audrey, falling unconscious before reaching the top of the stairs. Picking her up, he directed the other three to the end of the hallway. When Audrey, Jacob, Ebenezer, and Julius were prone in their beds, their father placed his palm on the forehead of each and mumbled what would have been perceived to be, in normal company, an evening prayer.

During the interminable night, Reynolds sharpened a small scythe blade to razor keenness and polished it until his demented smile sneered back at him from its mirrored surface. Four hemp ropes fashioned into nooses with thirteen twists lay aligned upon the dining table. Four crosses constructed from alder timbers leaned precariously against one another in the dining room archway. The main post of each unit spanned ten feet in the long dimension and met a perpendicular member at a point where the cross would appear to rest upside down when its lower end was buried two feet into the earth.

After insuring all necessary accoutrements were in order, Reynolds set about destroying twenty goats in the estate stables. Before killing the beasts, he enlisted a larger cousin of the breed to serve as ‘Judas’; its mission being to lure the oblivious animals to the cross erection site at midnight.

With the aid of his cloven-hoofed assistant, he herded the goats into a circular pen enclosed by a six-foot high, woven-wire fence built specifically for their containment. Reynolds waded in among the unsuspecting rascals, scythe in hand, thrashing wildly in all directions. The panicked bleating of the goats rang into the night, feeding the mad man’s lust and increasing his demented fury to bloodthirsty heights. When the mass of ruminants reduced to a handful, Reynolds methodically stalked each one singularly. With his leering face ablaze with an inner light, he chased the terrified beasts over and through the bodies of their fallen brethren. When finally cornered, the animals cowered in submission before their insane assailant.

Reynolds grabbed each of the bleating herbivores by a hind leg and lifted them kicking and squalling from the ground. He dispatched each of them with a single vicious blow to the abdomen, spilling their entrails upon his feet. In less than an hour, the song of death abated. Reynolds stepped outside the gory, burgundy ring and shot a menacing glance to a dim candle flitting in the window on the upper floor of the house. He dropped the scythe where he stood and strode defiantly back to the house. His children were waiting.

He entered the bedroom shared by his first and second born. With a last dispassionate gesture, he slid the down-filled pillow from beneath the head of his eldest son and placed it over the child’s face. Though unconscious, the helpless youngster struggled beneath the full weight of his father’s body. Only the boy’s spastic hands and feet foretold the agony as his life slipped away. In a moment, it was over. Reynolds smiled. One down, three to go. Without delay, he transferred the pillow to the next child’s face and then adjourned to the adjacent room where he resumed his madness.

After all four children succumbed, Reynolds carted them outside in succession, aligning their bodies, side by side, from largest to least�"their white cotton nightgowns gleaming like prostate ghosts in the ambivalent moonlight. He then erected the crosses at each corner of the enclosure, all strategically pointed to the four cardinal compass points. He sunk the crosses two feet into the pliant earth so that the horizontal member was about three feet above the ground. Upon each cross, he draped a child’s lifeless legs over the horizontal beam that served as a natural hook, with the upper part of the post between the young one’s knees. He then attached a thin lash of rawhide to one ankle, pulled the leather strip around the post and tied its loose end to the ankle of the child’s other leg.

With the corpses thus secured, he was free to execute the next step of his ghoulish enterprise. He arranged five goats around each cross with their rear ends near the cross’s upright post. Their gutless carcasses splayed outward to form a five-pointed pentagram. He stripped butt-naked, built a bonfire near the crucifixion site and danced around it with savage glee until he collapsed in exhaustion near the flaming embers. After several minutes, he re-energized and resumed his diabolical experiment.

He produced a large ceremonial dagger and with it slit the throats of his progeny. It was imperative that he catch the first surge of crimson liquid in his mouth. In order to accomplish this vital step, he reclined beneath each dangling child, craned his head until face-to-face, and drew the knife expertly for its entire length across each ivory shaft. After consuming a mouthful of their blood, he allowed the remainder to wash over his head and torso, staining his infernal flesh an abominable red. The sticky mass gelled on his skin, camouflaged his identity and suggested a vile, new species had usurped his bones. A thrilling energy pulsed through his being and somehow trumped the preceding events in pure majesty and power.

Then, as if in answer to his heinous offering, storm clouds gathered in the distance. Thunder pealed with increasing temerity, its frequency and duration magnifying as the storm approached. Dynamic crashes bashed the heavens milliseconds after branching bolts of lightning split the sky.

Reynolds was beside himself in frenzy, reeling like a drunken man and muttering intelligible gibberish to his phantom audience. A gargantuan flash, greater than any he had ever witnessed, reflected eerily from the clouds and revealed the visage of his Lord and Master, Satan. The ethereal portrait glared down with approval from the tortured firmament. Reynolds dropped immediately to his knees, clasped his hands together in a prayerful gesture and pleaded to the Lord of Darkness to fulfill his wish of immortality�"to bestow upon him the supreme power he devoted his entire lifetime to pursuing.

In a heartbeat, a single arc of lightning met his upheld hands full force. His body surged electric. An ice blue aura encased his form and curled his skin to blistered translucent flakes that shed from his body like azure snow. The almighty pulse transfixed and transformed his shell into half a man, fusing his lower extremities to the moist loam in a hermetic mass. The residual power of each continued flash cast its wealth upon the haunted scene and prompted the ashen faces of his children to glow again like paper lanterns.

When concerned citizens discovered the horrific display three days later, Squire Lovingdale was a figurine of charred ash still kneeling in prayerful subordination. The children’s bodies were extricated and properly interred in the churchyard cemetery�"their presumed innocence outweighing the implied guilt by association. The act of atypical compassion was one of the truly righteous events in the town’s history. The Squire’s “burnt offering” crumbled into dust when disturbed and dispersed in a whisper of wind.

Squire Lovingdale III was dead, as were his four innocent children, but the evil that destroyed them grew fat on their wasted lives. It drifted unopposed over vale and hillock, then haughtily returned with devilish exhilaration to settle down upon the scene of its nightmare of carnage like a pall.

That abandoned altar to depravity rested for the next hundred years, patiently waiting for a spark of malevolence destined to inspire renewed purpose to its dark design. As the twenty-first century dawned, a series of apparently unrelated events freed the Wheel of Evil to again roll forth. Damned be the unfortunates in its way.