Have you heard of Ars Goetia from The Lesser Key of Solomon? It teaches you how to summon 72 of the most powerful demons. Not stories. Names. Rituals. Instructions. But that version isn’t complete. When Samuel Liddell Mathers compiled it, he left one out. There were supposed to be 73. He didn’t dare write her name. You’re probably wondering: Who is this guy? How does he know? Why should I care? I study religion for a living. I know. And you should care. Because she’s real. I’ve met her. Six months ago, I began researching a new book on cults in Western Europe. Like all my work, I went past the published material— into places my peers avoid. That’s where I found him. A man who claimed to be a descendant of Mathers. We spoke for weeks. Six days ago, I agreed to meet him. In Paris. We met at his apartment. He lived alone. That wasn’t surprising. He led me to his study. I recognized it instantly from our calls: tall bookshelves, stacks of yellowed papers, framed symbols and texts crowding the walls. He dug through a drawer and handed me a thick manila folder. Photocopies of Mathers’ notes— Ars Goetia as it was never meant to be seen. I took the materials back to my hotel room. For the next few days, I barely left. I read everything. Translating. Scribing. Cross-referencing. Mathers was meticulous. Every source documented. Multiple drafts. Careful revisions. And notes— on why certain demons were included. And why one was not. Buried in the middle of the stack: six pages of barely legible writing. The handwriting of a man coming apart. Journal entries. About her. Warnings. Apologies. Fragments of fear. Why he left her out. What she does. What she takes. The sixth page was ripped in half. Whatever mattered most—gone. I tore through the papers on my desk. It had to be there. I needed to find it. Then— Drifting slowly from the edge of the desk to the floor. The missing half. Her name. Her seal. Her ritual. The next thing I knew, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor. A sheet from the hotel notepad lay in front of me. Written in dark red— in blood— my best friend’s name. I tried to stand. I couldn’t. In my hand, the torn page. I looked at it. I still don’t know why I said it. Maybe she made me. I spoke her name. The lights went out. And just before the dark— I saw her. A shadow. Crowned. Dark purple eyes— the eyes of the soul taker.
I write weekly bite-sized horror vignettes. You can find more of my work here, including exclusive expanded endings of my stories → https://rickshorrorflicks.substack.com/ (P.S. This story has a wild plot twist in my expanded complete version!)