Vodka. Raw Meat. Tobacco.

Adam sat on the wooden floor of his cottage. White pillar candles lit around him in a circle. Then a little past midnight he began to chant, “take my soul cross my flesh, take my soul cross my flesh.

Nothing.

The candles remained lit. The stillness of the French countryside unchanged but for the chirps of crickets and croaks of toads. Disappointed, he retreated to his narrow bed and thought, I’m doing something wrong.

Just before dawn with the deep purple sky visible from his small windows, he awoke from a creaking sound coming from the salon below.

Piqued by interest, he slowly crept down the stairs to have a look. His eyes scanned the entire salon and whispered, “show me the unseen. Please show me the unseen.”

Nothing.

The following day he visited Lucien, a practitioner, further out of town. “I chanted past midnight,” exactly like you taught me but nothing happened.

The old man’s sagging eyes look up at him. “Are you certain?”

“Well…” Adam hesitated for a second. “I heard creaking sounds. But when I looked, there was nothing there.”

“Ah.” Lucien leaned back, a pensive look on his face. “The presence acknowledged you. But for some reason it didn’t cross the threshold.”

“Tonight, perform the ritual and wear the white cowled robe with nothing underneath. This will show you genuine invitation and modesty.”

Adam’s brows raised as he nodded.

That evening, Adam arranged the candles in a perfect circle and lit one by one. They casted sharper shadows around his whit robe. He close his eyes and with all his focus his began to chant the ancient words.

Nothing.

Frustrated, he stayed in the circle in deep thought, take my soul, cross my flesh, the robe must be preventing the crossing. He then removed it and sat naked in the circle and started the chant again.

A cold breath of wind moved across the salon. One by one, the candles guttered, plunging him into absolute darkness.

Adam’s eyes widened with arousal. Afte a lull of silence, he pleaded.  “Show me the unseen, show me the unseen.”

A voice then emerged from the corner of the room. “You summoned me yesterday, but you want more. You summoned me again. I want more.”

 “Anything. Anything.” Adam breathed. “Anything. Tell me what you want.”

“Two bottles of vodka. Two cuts of raw meat. Two handfuls of tobacco.”

Almost suddenly, the wind returned with a scent of earth and copper. The candles burst back to life, and the room spun around Adam. For a second, he doubted the experience but then noticed a bite mark on one of the candles.

Sleep was impossible. He paced until the shops opened, then hurried into town. At the liquor store, he selected tobacco and vodka. “I thought, you only drank wine, Adam.”

“Special occasions,” he mumbled and quickly left the shop, avoiding eye contact,

At butcher, Henri raised an eyebrow when Adam ordered two tenderloin steaks. “I thought you only at poultry?”

“I have… guests coming,” he answered.

“Okay, have a great time and take care. You look a little pale today and smell… of old earth.”

Adam grabbed the bag without saying a word and left.

Midnight arrived and Adam placed the offerings with his circle of candles. “Take my soul, cross mt flesh. Take my soul, cross my flesh. I summon thee.”

He chanted and chanted and chanted until his voice grew hoarse.

Nothing.

His sunken eyes searched every shadow, every corner but saw nor heard anything.

Then a thought crept into his mind—perhaps I’m meant to drink, eat and smoke one of each.

Adam stared at the bottle for a long moment, watching candlelight play through the clear glass. His hands shook as he broke the seal. The first sip burned, the second less so. Soon the room began to tilt pleasantly around the edges.

The raw meat felt cold and slippery between his fingers. He forced himself to bite, to chew, iron-rich blood coating his tongue. The tobacco was harsh and bitter, but he choked it down with more vodka.

Hours passed in a haze of alcohol and ritualistic consumption. The cottage walls seemed to breathe around him, expanding and contracting like lungs.

Then the same voice rose, “now eat drink, eat, smoke my share.”

“Yes. Yes. I will. And you will show me the unseen.”

“Indeed, I will.”

After drinking the second bottle of vodka, Adam was stumbling throughout his cottage and falling over furniture. “Show me. Show me,” He cried.

“Look into the mirror, Adam.”

He managed to stagger his way to the antique mirror that hung crooked on the hallway wall. He looked at the reflection, a blurred face with uneven eyes, and curved mouth like facial paralysis.”

“I see you,” he whispered, and his reflection’s mouth moved a fraction of a second too late. “I see you.”

Hours later, Adam was found shivering on the ground in the town’s center park. His bare feet cut and bloody from the cobblestones. No one had seen him leave the cottage or walk the two miles into town.

“Monsieur Adam. Monsieur Adam.” Passersby exclaimed with fingers raised to the mouths.

Three months later, Lucien visited Adam at a psychiatric ward in Paris. “Adam, look at me.

What happened? Adam, please look at me. Tell me what happened.”

“Vodka. Meat. Tobacco” he murmured.

“By God, you summoned a demon, not a spirit.”

Adam’s bloodshot eyes, now alert, raised to look at Lucien.

“Get out of here, old man!”